


Targaryen Supremacy

by Targaryen92



Series: Targaryen Ascendancy [2]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Dragons, Family, Politics, R Plus L Equals J, Romance, direwolves
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-07
Updated: 2020-06-11
Packaged: 2020-06-24 02:09:36
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 15
Words: 287,897
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19714153
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Targaryen92/pseuds/Targaryen92
Summary: The sequel to The Second Targaryen Dynasty. Set 9 years after the Night King was defeated, this story follows the lives Jon, Daenerys, Visenya, Rhaenys, and their children as they rule the Seven Kingdoms and Essos.(House Hightower and The Most Devout are suspected of plotting against the Iron Throne. Crown Prince Rhaegar and his sister Arya are fighting to keep their secret. A King's Tourney approaches with all the lords and knights of the Realm expected to attend. Princes and Princesses are falling in love. And House Targaryen builds upon its powerful position as the lords of the Seven Kingdoms vie for more power. There may also be a trip to Summerhall and a royal progress through the Riverlands.)Chapter 14 is the final day of the King's Tourney and the beginning of the conflict w/ House Hightower.





	1. Dragonstone

**314 AC**

**Princess Nymeria Targaryen**

Driftmark was slowly fading toward the horizon behind her as Nymeria held firmly onto the dark purple scales of Moonlight. There was not a cloud to be seen in the warm summer sky as she sailed over Blackwater Bay, anticipating Dragonstone to appear on the sea ahead. More than anything, she loved flying her dragon over the bay and basking in the sun’s warmth with the pleasant summer air keeping her cool as she sat upon Moonlight’s warm scales.

As much as she loved flying, Nymeria felt a tinge of displeasure toward her brother who had turned their flight back to Dragonstone into a race. She had flown to High Tide with Aegon to visit their grandmother, who was now the Lady of Driftmark, wed to Lord Monford Velaryon. Her grandmother and Lord Monford spent most of their time on Dragonstone or King’s Landing. When they did stay at High Tide, Nymeria always enjoyed her flights to Driftmark and preferred her distant Velaryon kin to the other families in the Crownlands.

Glancing toward her opponent, Nymeria admired her brother’s shoulder-length silver hair blowing in the wind as he pushed Kios to fly faster than Moonlight. The sight reminded her of the stories she read as a little girl of the dragonlords of Old Valyria. Aegon looked decisive and powerful as he sat upon the orange-scaled dragon.

What had been a relaxing flight over the castles, Driftmark and High Tide, to the towns of Hull and Spicetown, turned into a race with her brother to reach their own castle. She could see he was determined to beat her this time, never taking pleasure in his losses. Seeing Kios was beginning to inch further and further ahead, Nymeria leant closer to her dragon, “Sōvegon adere!”

Moonlight seemed to be waiting for her command and steadily increased her speed through the sky, beating her wings harder and faster until Nymeria found herself side by side with Aegon again. As her dragon moved further ahead, she couldn’t hold back her laugh, hoping Aegon saw her delight. Remembering she needed to get to Dragonstone first, she twisted her head back to the sea and saw their home emerging on the horizon.

While her dragon flew with great speed toward the seat of House Targaryen, Nymeria watched the fifty or so ships of the royal fleet sailing along the coast. She was reminded of how much she detested sailing and pitied her grandmother who had to endure Lord Velaryon’s love of the sea. _Why did she never claim one of the dragons? I will never understand._

Before she realized it, lost staring upon the Targaryen sails blowing in the wind, Moonlight was flying over rock and sand instead of the calm waters of Blackwater Bay. Wondering how far behind her brother was, she glanced over her shoulder to find him only one hundred feet away. Aegon noticed her gaze and pointed toward the uneven grounds outside the castle. He wanted to land where the dragons usually made their lair, but Nymeria wanted to enjoy the afternoon flight a little longer.

At the shake of her head, Nymeria told her brother she was not finished and pulled on Moonlight’s spikes. Taking a wide arc around the high walls of Dragonstone, her dragon settled upon a graceful path tracking the coastline toward the Port of Dragonstone. Nymeria was finally freed from her competitive impulses and relaxed her eyes as Moonlight danced through the sky.

Nymeria savored the peace she found in the sky as she always had until her legs felt and her ears heard Moonlight’s roar. They were now flying over the Port of Dragonstone and the town was busy with people walking its cobbled streets. Children could be seen playing in the fountains of the town’s square while Dothraki riders rode through the streets lined with shops, inns, taverns, and homes.

She had only known the town as it was today, but Nymeria could still hear her grandmother speak of its days as a simple fishing village. The town below her was far greater, boasting a population of ten thousand souls. Despite its rapid growth in the years following her parents’ coronation, Nymeria learned that her father kept a tight rule over the island and every family that called Dragonstone home were fiercely loyal to House Targaryen. Because of their trust of the people on the island, Nymeria was able to enjoy far more freedoms and fewer guards whenever they spent time on Dragonstone.

Dragonstone was populated by loyalists, but there were still outsiders who came by sea and anchored at the port. With her family’s rule over Essos, trade prospered up and down the Narrow Sea, greatly benefiting Dragonstone and Driftmark. The same as any other day, Nymeria laid her eyes upon more than the black and red painted sails belonging to the royal fleet. Yellow, white, purple, green, blue, and grey sails painted the docks reserved for visiting galleys, cogs, whalers, carracks, and the odd longship.

At a quick glance, Nymeria could see ships from Braavos, Tyrosh, Pentos, Myr, and Lys. While she managed to spot ships hailing from Gulltown, Lannisport, Oldtown, and the Arbor, she failed see any from Sunspear or White Harbor. She loved sitting and listening to the accent of northmen and Dornishmen. They reminded her of her second and fourth royal progresses. Near the end of the three-year winter, a royal progress was taken through Dorne. Two years after, they returned to the North.

Just as she pulled on Moonlight to bank left toward the town with the harbor below them, the large white sails furled upon the mast of a swan ship caught her eye. While it was not an unknown sight, it was certainly a rare occasion for a ship from the Summer Isles to visit Dragonstone. _What could this be about? They usually port at King’s Landing._

Circling back toward her family’s castle, Moonlight made good time, landing near the cliffs after a few minutes of flight. Nymeria had her fill for the day and slid gracefully off her dragon onto the grassy ground below. She looked around for Aegon, but only saw Vyraxes, Sonar, and Silverclaw obstructing her view. After carefully running her hand over Moonlight’s scales, thankful for the joy she brought her, Nymeria left the edge of the cliff.

Nymeria was careful to avoid the dragons’ tails and wings, but each seemed to sense her presence and parted the path she walked over the uneven ground. After passing Darkskye and Vermithrex, she stood at the edge of the pool that covered twice the ground as Dragonstone’s main yard. Surprisingly, she did not see her direwolf or any others nearby. It was typical to see them by the water with the dragons if not within the castle itself.

“You won again, sweet sister,” Nymeria heard Aegon as his arm slipped around her front, pulling her flush against his chest. She looked upon their reflection in the water at her feet and knew they were made for one another.

“Because you never learn, brother,” she replied, turning around to look upon his face. Nymeria did not leave herself much time to admire Aegon, quickly pulling his head down to seal his lips with hers. He was no longer the inexperienced boy she had kissed for the first time in her room in the Red Keep. _He is good and he is mine._ Breaking apart, she continued, “Kios tires too early. You push him too hard.”

“If you say so, my love,” Aegon replied with a smirk on his lips. _You fool. Always too stubborn to listen._

They were only fourteen years of age, but Nymeria did not think herself a lovesick maid, falling for the first boy that showed her attention. Many boys had sought her hand at court, even before she was interested in such things. She knew Aegon loved her and she knew she loved him. Unlike her older brother and sister, she did not care who saw them. Since that first night they had kissed, she made sure those around her knew Aegon was taken.

“I forgot to mention, have you heard the news?” Aegon asked as they walked arm in arm along the pool’s edge toward the open gate of the castle hundreds of feet away. She shook her head, wondering what he was talking about. _All I have heard is some septon burned himself alive outside the Starry Sept and the Mountain Clans have attacked travelers on the road to the Eyrie._ “Uncle Robb will ride south for the King’s Tourney. And several lords of the North with him.”

“And our cousins?” Nymeria asked, afraid the rest of House Stark would be left behind. Instead of finding sadness, Aegon filled her with joy with a simple nod of his head. _This means all our kin will be in King’s Landing. I wonder if Uncle Bran will come._ “Are you going to name me your Queen of Love and Beauty?”

“I was thinking of Martha Stokeworth,” Aegon jested with a smile on his lips. Nymeria was quick to hit him on the arm, not finding the humor. Martha Stokeworth was an unattractive, but sweet girl, near their age. Nymeria hated the rest of House Stokeworth from years of her mother reminding her of their disloyalty, but she was sure there was a loyal or at least bendable ally to be found in Martha.

“What was that for?” Aegon asked, as if he did not earn it.

“You are cruel. What has she ever done to you?”

“Mayhaps I should name Meredyth Hightower my Queen of Love and Beauty,” Aegon jested again, this time going too far. This time, Nymeria hit him harder. _He knows how much I hate her._

“Find yourself another if you make a jest like that again,” Nymeria responded with fire in her words. _Meredyth Hightower is a whore who thinks too highly of herself. I swear it, she will never have one of my brothers._

“I am sorry. You will be my Queen of Love and Beauty, always,” Aegon washed away the harmless anger she held, pulling her in for another kiss near the end of the pool. Every year, the King’s Tourney was held in the sixth month and for the first time, Nymeria pictured herself with a crown of roses. All of the Realm’s greatest knights and lords would contest for the title of Tourney Champion, but she believed in Aegon. _Let them see I am his and he is mine._

“I love you,” she confessed, not for the first time. She wanted to stay like this, staring upon his flawless face and dark amethyst eyes identical to her own. Nymeria loved him even more as she felt his hand bravely slide from the small of her back to rest firmly upon her ass. They hadn’t done anything more than kiss, but she wondered what it would feel like if they went further.

“And I love you,” Aegon echoed her feeling, reaffirming his conviction with a firm squeeze on her ass, causing her to think terrible thoughts. She was flush against his front and could feel his cock stirring in his breeches.

Nymeria decided not to tempt Aegon or herself any further and let him escort her to the gate closest to them. As they walked across the uneven field with the occasional jagged rock emerging from the grass, she could see the household guard and Unsullied waiting for their entrance. Dragonstone was a safe place for their family, but Nymeria knew the Unsullied would never rid themselves of caution and her father demanded much of the household guard.

“Prince Aegon! Princess Nymeria!” Baavo, a Dothraki rider only a few years older than themselves, cried out in broken common tongue as he rode through the gate. Nymeria noticed Qhorro riding next to him, both skilled riders who were part of the small khalasar that stayed behind, never returning to the Dothraki Sea.

“Will you ride with us?” Qhorro asked. The Dothraki always invited them for a ride over the more suitable lands on the island, away from the castle. Nymeria had grown up around the Dothraki and learned how to ride from them, as had all her siblings.

“I wish, my friends. We just returned from Driftmark,” Aegon replied in perfected Dothraki, instilled upon them by their mother, Missandei, and the Dothraki handmaidens.

“On the morrow, we shall ride from the port to the northern cliffs!” she yelled in her third language, earning cries of approval from Baavo and Qhorro as they raised their arakhs in the air, riding back to their homes in the town.

Her eyes followed the Dothraki until they disappeared around the castle walls and Aegon gently pulled on her arm. Staying at his side, Nymeria walked through the open gate with two dozen Unsullied bowing their heads. _Each of them would die for us, even if we had not earned their loyalty. That was father and our mothers._

Once inside the walls of Dragonstone, she could see the castle filled with life. Household guards and Unsullied stood at their posts atop the ramparts with spears and shields in hand. Across the yard, she could see Grand Maester Pylos walking from the Sea Dragon Tower to the Stone Drum. Elsewhere, she saw several cooks carrying breads to the kitchens while the blacksmith guided a cart to his forge.

A smile crept onto Nymeria’s face when her eyes landed on the training yard, catching her sister Dany teaching Lyarra how to correctly hold her bow. While both of her sisters would be great beauties, both stood in stark contrast to one another. Dany was the image of Old Valyria with her silver hair and violet eyes, while Lyarra looked like a Northern princess with smooth raven hair and grey eyes. Those who truly knew them knew they were the same person. Lyarra liked all the things Arya and Dany liked, riding, archery, and especially swordplay.

“I am afraid this is where we part,” Aegon said, pulling her flush against him again, leaving a searing kiss on her lips. Nymeria committed his taste to memory before opening her eyes again, letting him go to join their brothers. She could see Rhaegar, Eddard, and Jon instructing Benjen, Daemon, and Rickard.

Keeping a watchful eye on her brothers as she made her way to Dany’s archery lessons, Nymeria could see the mischievous looks on Daemon and Benjen. Her raven-haired little brothers always liked to get up to nothing good and were surely plotting some prank upon someone in their family. Her eyes left the two twins, knowing they would become excellent fighters when they came of age.

Her worries rested with her little brother Rickard. Nymeria could see the disappointed look on his face as Rhaegar laid a hand upon his shoulder, giving him instructions she could not hear. Rickard was a sweet boy who lacked the skill of his brothers, but did not lack the courage or commitment. Seeing Rhaegar ruffle their little brother’s raven curls warmed her heart as she came upon Rhaenyra.

Rhaenyra looked just like her mother, Visenya, only she inherited their father’s raven hair. Nymeria could see her twelve-year-old sister was splitting her time between drawing something on parchment, cheering on her twin Rickard, and listening to Dany’s instructions. _She has no interest in bows or swords. Not that it matters, she is naturally gifted at anything she puts her mind to._

“What are you drawing?” she asked, sitting upon the wooden crate beside Rhaenyra, who seemed concentrated on leaving a final touch upon the parchment laid across the higher stack of crates before her.

“Benjen and Rickard,” Rhaenyra answered, holding up the parchment to show her two brothers fighting with swords in hand. Nymeria was fascinated by the details her sister captured with just ink and quill.

“How do you keep the ink from bleeding?” she asked, admiring the thinly drawn lines depicting every inch of their brothers’ clothes and the training yard around them. 

“I don’t know,” Rhaenyra shrugged as if she did not need any practice to perfect her craft. _I wish I had a skill like you, little sister. Perhaps my skill is court, dragonriding, and loving Aegon._ “Rickard! Go! Don’t let him pick up his shield!”

Nymeria added to the cheers of her sisters as Dany yelled for Rickard to take out Benjen’s legs. Instead, Rickard skillfully parried Benjen’s panicked blows. Benjen found himself off balance seconds later as Rickard pushed his attack until Nymeria saw a practiced move coming forward. Rickard won the spar, laying his wooden blade upon Benjen’s neck, earning cheers from their family in the yard. _Good for him, he is getting better._

“He has been practicing that move for a moon,” Rhaenyra commented, returning to her drawing, finishing the castle walls in the background. “Is grandmother returning for the feast?”

“She is,” Nymeria confirmed, turning her gaze to Dany lifting Lyarra’s elbow by less than an inch. Nymeria liked seeing her two sisters in their riding breeches and training blouses. They were true to themselves and did not care what the world expected of them as princesses at court. Both reminded her of their mother, Visenya. _Each of them, warriors._

Nymeria watched as Lyarra hit a bullseye for the tenth time before finally removing her arrows from the target to allow their youngest sister, Allyria a chance to learn from Dany. Allyria proudly lifted her bow from the wooden bench she sat upon and stood by Dany, reaching for her first arrow from the quiver on the ground. Allyria was only nine years old, but Nymeria could see signs of her little sister’s skill with bow and sword. Like all of her sisters, Nymeria expected Allyria to grow into a great beauty, looking like their mother, only with the raven hair of their father.

As Allyria began to hit her marks with Dany’s guidance, Nymeria heard a familiar voice call for her brother, Rickard. Twisting her neck, she found Queen Visenya, who was a mother to her, crossing the yard with her grandmothers and Ser Brienne of Tarth. They were not approaching from the Great Hall or the Stone Drum. _Where did they come from? I did not see them outside the castle walls._

“Where did our mother and grandmothers come from?” she asked Rhaenyra, causing her sister to abandon her drawing and look at Visenya hugging Rickard. It looked an odd sight, as Visenya and her grandmothers carried a sadness with them. _Has something happened?_

“They are returning from the crypts,” Rhaenyra said, leaving her final touches on the parchment. “Father and Daenerys already visited. I saw them before you arrived.”

“Oh…,” Nymeria let out, reminded of the importance of the day. It was her departed uncle’s nameday. Instantly, she knew what that meant and wished she had not flown to Driftmark before visiting the crypt with her mother. The crypts were a dark, cold, and lonely place. Her father had them constructed beneath Dragonstone to hold the remains of House Targaryen, secure from outsiders and away from the Faith of the Seven.

“Thank you, sweet sister. Your drawing is beautiful,” Nymeria said, returning to her feet to find the crypts. She knew her mother was still down there, mourning. As she crossed the yard, Aegon gave her a bright smile before returning to his spar with their brother Jon.

Nymeria walked around the Stone Drum, past the entrance to the armory, and found the archway leading down to the newest part of the castle. The passage was dark and cold, shielded from the summer air as she descended the stairs, leaving Shadow and two Unsullied standing guard behind her. The lit braziers were the only things saving her from tripping over herself and not retreating back to the warmth of the yard.

Hundreds of future Targaryens would be able to have their ashes laid to rest in the crypts, but Nymeria knew there were only ashes of three dragons within. _Grandfather. Uncle. Maester Aemon._ Mindful of her steps echoing through the crypts, Nymeria approached as softly as she could, so as not to disturb the peace.

At the end of the illuminated path, Nymeria could see her mother’s face under the flamelight. It was clear for anyone to see she had shed tears and was still affected by the loss all these years later. _I could not imagine losing a brother. Not one of them. Especially Aegon._

“He would have loved you,” her mother said, staring at the statue of her brother, Crown Prince Aegon Targaryen. He looked like her father, only younger and without the beard. _Far too young._ To her left, she saw the statues of her grandfather, King Rhaegar Targaryen, and Aemon Targaryen, Maester of Castle Black. She wondered if they truly looked as their statues did now, passing them to come to her mother’s side.

“Father always says he was a good man. A loyal brother and a good prince. A great future king,” Nymeria responded, knowing her father always carried a sense of guilt that he lived and his brother did not. Part of Nymeria wished he had lived. She wished to know her uncle and meet the great man she had heard so many stories about. Then there was the dark corner of her mind, telling her that it was good he was dead. _If he were alive, I wouldn’t be here. My brothers and sisters would not be here. My father and mother would have never wed._

“He was. He would have been,” her mother replied, closing her eyes in pain. Nymeria felt a lump form in her throat, seeing how his death still affected her mother to this day.

“You loved him,” Nymeria finally said the words, making it real. Her mother rarely spoke of her dead brother and Nymeria never brought it up. She knew the truth and heard the snickers and gossip of the lords and ladies at court.

“I did,” her mother confirmed after opening her teary eyes to face Nymeria. “Does that bother you?”

“No,” Nymeria confessed honestly until she started to question herself. “I don’t know. I wish I knew him. He was my uncle and he was family. But father…”

“It’s alright, Nymeria. I struggled with similar feelings long ago. I loved Aegon, more than anything in this world. I thought we were meant for each other. He was supposed to be my King and I his Queen,” her mother said, laying comforting hand upon her arm. “I am ashamed to admit it, but after his death, I wanted nothing but revenge. And after that, my own death. But then I sailed for Astapor and fell in love with your father. He made me want to live again and saved me from myself. He gave me everything and asked nothing in return. There isn’t a greater man in this world.”

“Is…,” Nymeria tripped over her own words, until her mother squeezed on her arm, telling her to continue. “Is father our real father? I mean, is…”

Nymeria instantly regretted her question. For years, she told herself not to listen to the whispers and she thought she believed the truth. Now standing before the remains that caused such rumors, she crumbled under their weight, afraid that she had always been wrong and her whole life was a lie. _The Bastard Prince and the Bastard Princess._ Every memory of those whispers rang through her ears as time began to slow and she waited for her mother’s answer.

“What? Of course your father is your father. Why would you ask such a thing?” her mother responded with a tinge of anger mixed with a deep sadness. Nymeria broke, falling into her mother’s loving arms, hating herself for even voicing her doubts. _I always think I am strong, a Princess of House Targaryen. A dragonrider and warrior princess. I am weak and stupid._

“I’m sorry mother. I’m so sorry,” Nymeria sobbed into her mother’s shoulder, wishing she could take it all back. She had younger brothers and sisters with silver hair, but everyone remarked her twin looked like his namesake. It was always a seed of doubt she never failed to uproot and cast away. “Please forgive me.”

“There is nothing to forgive, Nymeria,” her mother replied with a trembling voice, holding her firmly within her grasp. “Why did you ask?”

“I have heard what some of them call me, the Bastard Princess. I always told myself they were fools, but everyone says Aegon looks like our uncle. I…I…,” Nymeria tried to continued. It hurt and she felt like she could do nothing about it.

“How long have you heard this?” her mother asked with fire in her eyes.

“I don’t know,” Nymeria answered truly. “Since I was little. I can’t remember. I am sorry.”

“You have nothing to feel sorry for. I should burn every last one of them who called you that. Tell me their names and they will suffer my justice,” her mother demanded. Nymeria knew her mother to be a fair and just Queen, but she could hear the fiery temper she only twice heard of. _She is serious. She would burn them all._

“No, Mother. Part of me wishes you did, but we can’t,” she replied. _Why am I such a fool? To let some petty lady or lord’s gossip make me doubt everything?_

“Look at me, Nymeria. Look at me,” her mother demanded, cupping her face so they met eye to eye. “You are my trueborn daughter. The daughter of King Jon Targaryen, first of his name. We love you and would see the world burn to keep you safe. Your father, me, Daenerys, and Visenya. We love you and will do anything to protect you and your siblings. Do you understand?”

Nymeria nodded her head as she fought away the tears, causing her mother to pull her into another embrace. All her life, she was strong like her sisters and mothers. She wanted to curse herself for acting like a vulnerable girl, but she needed this.

“I hope you know you can come to me when you are hurting like this. I worry sometimes, for you and your sisters. You expect too much of yourselves and too little of others. I never want you to feel alone. A Targaryen alone in the world is a terrible thing,” her mother added before Nymeria finally stepped back. _I will never be alone. I have Aegon._ “Has your brother felt this way?”

“If he has, he hasn’t told me. I feel foolish now. He never doubted who we were. I thought I always believed the truth…,” Nymeria began to mumble, turning her gaze to the statue of her dead uncle. She could sense her mother wanted to say something but held her tongue as Nymeria stared ahead. “What was he like?”

“He was smart and he was kind. He knew how to make me laugh and he made me happy. I loved him and I will always love him, but he isn’t your father,” her mother said, standing shoulder to shoulder with her. “We all have someone we are meant to be with. You are young, but I can see it, how you look at your brother. How he looks at you. You love each other.”

“We do,” Nymeria confirmed, praying she was not going to learn her parents planned to betroth one or both of them to another.

“Good. I am happy for you. Enjoy this time and savor every moment you have with him. And do not rush things, I am too young to be a grandmother,” her mother added with a warning look on her face.

“Mother! No!” Nymeria responded, wishing her mother avoided such subjects. _I have not even seen him yet. I want to, but I haven’t. No, marriage and children will not come soon._

“But one day, I do wish to see grandchildren running through the halls of the Red Keep,” her mother added. Nymeria began to imagine what her children may look like one day, but stopped herself as she conjured images of a little boy running through the halls of the Red Keep. She was still young and had plenty of years before that. _Our children will only have a few years in the Red Keep before our castle is built._

Her mother gave her enough time to gather herself and remove all signs of the tears she had shed before emerging from the crypts to the waiting guards and direwolf. The training yard was filled with sounds of her brothers sparring and her little sisters cheering them on as she marched toward the Throne Room. Nymeria would have stayed in the yard, but found Aegon was still instructing their brothers under Ser Oswell Whent’s watchful eyes.

Avoiding the entrance hall that led to the Throne Room, her mother navigated the halls of the keep so they would enter near the steps of the throne. The passage they emerged from led to the Chamber of the Painted Table and various other rooms used by her family to hold councils, meet with lords, and rule the Realm. To her surprise, they reached the end of their path unhindered by anyone seeking her mother’s ear.

While her mother continued on to take her place beside her father who sat the throne, Nymeria looked to her right to find Arya standing next to the closest pillar with Rhaegar. Nymeria moved to join her sister as the herald announced her mother’s presence. She could see Shadow lay at her mother’s feet as Silver did before Queen Visenya. Part of her felt sorry for those who sought an audience with her parents. Her father looked strong and intimidating upon his throne with his Valyrian steel crown. And so did her mothers, with crowns of their own and two direwolves at their feet.

“What is going on?” she whispered, seeing a tall man from the Summer Isles standing ten feet away from the steps leading to the throne forged with dragonfire by the Valyrians of old. While Daenerys and Visenya sat to her father’s right, her mother sat to his left as Davos Seaworth stood next to her. _Whatever this man has come here for, the Hand does not look pleased._

“Some prince from the Summer Isles, or so he claims. He wants father’s help to take back his lands and his crown,” Arya whispered in High Valyrian, not hiding the mockery in her soft tone only she could hear. _Father will never agree to it. If our House wanted the Summer Isles, they would be ours._

“You misunderstand me, Prince Jalabhar. You are welcomed in our Realm, but we will not get involved in the affairs of the Summer Isles,” Nymeria listened to her father warn the guest in a stern voice.

“But your Grace, I would hold the Isles in your name. I do not ask for dragons, only ships and men,” the prince continued while her father held his unmoving face. _He comes before the King desperate with nothing to offer except the Summer Isles?_

“House Targaryen will take no part in your war. You are welcome to stay at the Port of Dragonstone for another three days, but on the fourth, I expect you to leave. Now go, my Prince, and do not ask this of me again,” her father commanded, draining all hope from the man’s face. Nymeria watched carefully, wondering if the man was brave or stupid enough to say something foolish. She could tell there was no bravery to be found in the so-called prince as he turned on his heels to join what looked to be his sons, standing several feet behind him.

“Aegon and I saw their ship in the port this morning,” Nymeria told Arya as she watched the Summer Islanders retreat through the large doors at the end of the room. She was sure if they were not already watched, Varys’ spies were sure to be following them now.

“How was grandmother?” Arya asked, uninterested in the swan ship.

“She is well. She will be here for the feast,” Nymeria answered. “I expected to find you in the training yard.”

“Father called for our presence at the Small Council,” Arya replied. _She isn’t as convincing as she thinks she is. Father called for Rhaegar. He never demands anything from us._

Nymeria carefully observed her older sister. Arya couldn’t help herself, constantly looking Rhaegar’s way. She could never understand why Arya of all people hid her relationship with Rhaegar. _It must be his wishes. She would claim their love before all the lords and ladies of the Realm if she had it her way._

“You know you don’t have to hide it. Mother and Father know about Aegon and I,” she spoke softly so only Arya could hear.

“That is your business. Do not concern yourself with ours,” Arya hissed. Nymeria shook her head, wondering how her sister’s love for Rhaegar changed her. Arya was beautiful, brave, and outgoing to anyone who knew her. But whenever it came to Rhaegar, she became reserved, secretive, protective, and quiet.

“I was just trying to help,” Nymeria apologized, not meaning to pry into her sister’s relationship.

“I am sorry. I didn’t mean to sound so cross with you. It’s just…,” Arya paused, causing Nymeria to look over her shoulder. She saw Rhaegar speaking with Missandei and Grey Worm. “Rhaegar and I want it to stay like this until we announce our betrothal.”

“And you are fine with every lady at court throwing themselves at him?” she asked, leading Arya to give her a knowing look with an arched brow.

“I trust Rhaegar and if any of them take it too far, I’ll see to it they are betrothed to the oldest and fattest lord I can find,” Arya declared. _I could not stand it with Aegon._ “And that is if I am feeling merciful.”

“You could always introduce them to Rhaegal,” Nymeria jested, earning a small laugh from her sister. Slowly, Arya’s brow began to furrow and Nymeria wondered what she had done.

“Is something wrong sister? I did not want to say anything before, but you look sad,” Arya asked. _Is it that obvious?_ She did not feel sad, but she also did not feel happy. More than anything, she felt angered with herself for ever entertaining the idea she was not a trueborn Targaryen.

“I went to the crypts with my mother,” she answered, seeing Arya put the pieces together.

“Do not listen to such filth. You are my sister, Princess Nymeria of House Targaryen,” Arya insisted, pulling her in for a hug. In a jesting whisper, she continued, “Do not be so simple sister. You were born more than nine moons after uncle was killed.”

“I know,” she replied, angered and disappointed with herself even more. _Aegon would scold me for ever thinking such things._

“We should fly on the morrow. To Crackclaw Point, or even Gulltown,” Arya offered, resting a hand upon her shoulder. Arya could be wild and fiery, but Nymeria knew the soft and gentle side of her older sister, who was protective of them all.

“Aegon and I already promised Baavo and Qhorro we would ride with them to the northern cliffs,” she confessed. _I rather fly Moonlight, but I gave my word._

“Then Rhaegar and I shall join you, if you will have us,” Arya said.

“Of course,” Nymeria answered. She expected Dany and Jon would also come. She had not seen Eddard or Visenya, but knew she would need to tell them. As she wondered where they were, she saw Lord Justin Massey and his three sons who were a few years older than her parents enter. The Lord of Stonedance was just one of many lords from the Crownlands who were arriving at Dragonstone for the feast.

Nymeria looked to the herald, who began to list her parents’ titles, “You stand in the presence of Jon of the House Targaryen, First of His Name, Khal of the Great Grass Sea, King of Essos, and King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm.”

**Crown Prince Rhaegar Targaryen**

He had been going over the Crown’s numbers with Lord Ardrian Celtigar, seeing which lords had borrowed from their House, which cities were low on their taxes, and what projects required coin in the coming years. It was tedious work, but Rhaegar pushed through, knowing it was his duty as the Crown Prince to maintain his family’s position. It was a lesson he learned long ago. It wasn’t just dragons and men that gave his family power, it was their wealth.

After his parents’ conquest of Essos, there wasn’t a family left with even a hundredth of the gold held by House Targaryen. The great houses of Westeros were in far better standing, but they could not rival Dragonstone. Rhaegar understood Houses Tyrell, Hightower, and Arryn were the wealthiest after the great war and the winter that followed. The heirs of Highgarden and the Eyrie were his kin, so he did not worry himself about their gold. _The Hightowers are the only ones who could pose a threat._

“These are for Winterhall?” he asked the Master of Coin, concentrating on the numbers written into the pages of the ledger in his hands. Rhaegar understood castles cost a great deal of coin to build, but what he read worried him. It would not impact their wealth in any real way, but he wondered if the gold could not be put to better use.

“They are, my Prince,” Lord Ardrian said as he pulled another ledger forward. Rhaegar readied himself for more lessons on the cities of Essos and what should be expected from their taxes. To his relief, they were interrupted by a guard at the door.

“Lord Celtigar,” the soldier acknowledged the lord before turning to him. “My Prince, the King requests your presence.”

“I am sorry Lord Ardrian. We shall continue this another day,” Rhaegar bid the lord farewell. When he turned to follow the guard out of the room, a smile crept onto his lips, thanking his father for saving him from hours of looking at numbers.

Rhaegar did not bother to ask where they were going, knowing the path the guard started on surely led to the Chamber of the Painted Table. He did not know why, but for the first time in years, he paid close attention to the dragons, basilisks, and gargoyles carved into the stone walls of Dragonstone. It was many years ago, but he could still remember the first time he set foot inside the castle. It was the first time he met his grandmother and fell in love with the castle he would rule one day.

The further he walked, the more Rhaegar admired the skill required to build Dragonstone. Only the Valyrians held the power and knowledge to build such a castle and forge the elegant designs that made every other castle in the Seven Kingdoms pale in comparison. _Will our House ever learn to accomplish such feats again?_

Outside the Chamber of the Painted Table, four Unsullied and four household guard stood along the walls with lit braziers over their shoulders. The guard who found him stepped aside and Rhaegar opened the heavy door leading into the chamber. Within the chamber, he found his father standing at the end of the table looking down at Dorne with Ser Barristan Selmy and Ser Arthur Dayne to his father’s left.

“See to it they understand. I do not want any mistakes,” his father ordered the Kingsguard.

“Yes, your Grace,” Ser Barristan replied.

Rhaegar approached, nearing the lit hearth until he stood next to Storm’s End. Ghost was quick to come to his side, looking up at him with his ruby eyes. His father’s direwolf was getting older, but he was still just as quick and fierce as he remembered.

“That will be all,” his father said, dismissing the Kingsguard so it was just the two of them at the table built by Aegon the Conqueror. _Did he ever think to go east? Did any Targaryen dream of building what Father has?_

“My King,” both Kingsguard replied, bowing their heads to his father before looking to him. “Prince Rhaegar.”

Rhaegar nodded to the Kingsguard and turned to find his father watching them exit the room, waiting for them to be alone. His father always made sure no one was listening when it was just the two of them or his brothers. Each of the Kingsguard were trusted with their most closely guarded secrets, but Rhaegar learned years ago his father made sure no one was present when he taught him how to rule.

“What did you think of this Prince Jalabhar?” his father asked, taking a seat at the table. Rhaegar did the same, taking the chair across the Sea of Dorne. His mind began to recollect everything he observed from the man from the Summer Isles and thought about what was said.

“He acted calm and patient, but his true nature showed through when you told him no. I do not think he would be a loyal ally. Even if he is a true prince in his lands, he holds no power or respect. And he would not fight himself. That is why he wants our men and ships,” Rhaegar said, hoping he did not miss anything, knowing one day it would be his duty to rule and judge the character of the men who stood before the throne.

“And why did I refuse him?”

“Because of our alliance with the King of the Summer Isles. Because our dragons could not fly there and it would be difficult to hold the Summer Isles,” Rhaegar answered. He agreed with his father. They could conquer the isles with ease, but holding them would be difficult. They did not know the lands nor the seas around them.

“That is true, but those are not the only reasons. A king should never seek out war and never far from his lands. The Summer Isles are no threat to our people and it is already difficult enough to rule our Realm. From the Frostfangs to Qarth…,” his father paused, looking at the table before them. “Your mothers and I did not seek this. We did not want it.”

“You fought injustice with justice,” Rhaegar echoed his mother’s words, remembering her stories from Essos and the conditions the former slaves lived under.

“Be careful with justice, my son. It is easy for one to see their own form of justice and use it to excuse their actions. There is good and evil on every side of war. Strength can be terrible. One day, you will have the power to affect the lives of every citizen of the Realm. Do not take it lightly,” his father warned him.

“I won’t Father. I swear it,” Rhaegar promised. Then his father’s words played in his mind and he realized he had never asked why his father conquered Essos. He had been told of the betrayal they faced in Qarth, the slavery in the Bay of Dragons, and the plotting of the free cities with the slave masters. _They never told us why they took a khalasar and the city of Pentos._

“What is it? I can tell when you have something on your mind,” his father asked. _Mother always says I brood too much._

“Why did you and Mother take the Dothraki? Why Pentos? There were no slaves there, at least not like the other cities,” Rhaegar replied. Whatever his father was about to say, Rhaegar could see it was not something he wished to discuss.

“When your mother and I were exiled to Pentos, we just wanted to live by the sea and raise a family in peace. We hadn’t been there long until Khal Drogo and his khalasar arrived outside the city. We were guests to Illyrio Mopatis and were invited to the negotiations for the payment the magisters would give the Dothraki,” his father told him, trailing off near the end.

“And?”

“Khal Drogo demanded your mother and I told him no. I killed him and his bloodriders. I wanted nothing to do with the Dothraki, but your mother convinced me we could do good. We could save Pentos from its corruption and stop the khalasar from tearing itself apart.”

“Mother never told me,” Rhaegar said, horrified by the mere thought of his mother being taken by some khal.

“We did not want you or your siblings to know such things. One day, you will find a woman you love and have a family of your own. You will protect them at all costs, no matter the price,” his father added. _I would kill any man who tried to lay his hands on Arya or our sisters._ “Have any of the girls at court interested you?”

“No,” he lied, not wanting to say more. His brothers and sisters knew of his relationship with Arya, but his parents did not. Rhaegar did not want to be rushed into a marriage. _Arya will be my wife when the time is right._ In an attempt to convince his father he had no affections for a particular girl he continued, “How will I know? How will I find the lady I know I will love?”

“I could try and explain, but you will know, Rhaegar,” his father replied, giving him a strange look. _Does he suspect or am I imagining things?_ “You fought well in the yard this morning.”

“You saw us?” Rhaegar let out, his mind racing, trying to remember if he or Arya had shown any sort of affection toward one another. They had woken shortly after sunrise, stealing the time they had to spar with one another before the Kingsguard pulled them aside for individual instruction. He was grateful to receive training from the greatest knights in the Realm, but he preferred sparring with his sister more than anyone else.

“Ser Arthur and I were sparring before you and your sister. If you aren’t careful, she will knock you off your feet. You leave your weak side vulnerable to attack. The best knights wouldn’t see it, but Arya will,” his father advised him, confident Arya would best him. _She has before. She is far better than most with a sword._

“I will keep that in mind,” Rhaegar answered, waiting for his father to reveal he had seen them kiss or seen him hold her. _Did we do anything? I cannot remember._

“Do not lose sleep over it. You are more skilled every time I see you spar,” his father complimented his swordplay with a smile. “But that doesn’t mean you should not stop training. I have faith you will become a far greater swordsmen than I could ever hope to be.”

Rhaegar appreciated his father’s words and felt his father believed it. _I do not believe it. He is the greatest swordsmen to ever live. He fought beyond the Wall when he was younger than me and killed a khal and his bloodriders by himself. How many battles had he won in Essos? He defeated the Mountain and retook the Red Keep. He killed the Night King and white walkers._

“I do not want to disappoint you. Valarr will be more skilled than me in a few years. I can see it every time we train,” Rhaegar said, thinking Valarr had more natural abilities than them all, except Daeron. Daeron was only ten years old, but he showed impressive speed and picked up on the finer skills of swordsmanship rather quickly.

“Each of your brothers are skilled. Do you plan to enter the melee in the King’s Tourney? Or perhaps the joust?” his father asked.

“You always said the tourneys are for the knights of summer, so they could play at war,” Rhaegar countered, remembering his father’s words during the King’s Tourney several years ago.

“Do not listen to me. I entered the joust once. I am sure you have heard,” his father answered. Rhaegar nodded, having heard the story many times before. Some outside their family thought that was when his father fell in love with his mother. He knew better.

“I have,” he confirmed.

“Will you enter the tourney?”

“Aegon plans to ride in the tilts. I do not want to stop my sister from earning her crown,” he answered, knowing Nymeria wanted Aegon to crown her the Queen of Love and Beauty in front of all the lords and ladies of the Seven Kingdoms. “And you were right, it is for knights playing at war.”

“I pray you and your brothers never need to use your swords. Do not listen to the fools who have not killed another man. Wars are not like the songs. I have seen thousands of men and boys marching into battle, thinking they will end a war with the edge of their blade only to die moments into the fighting,” his father warned him, staring off onto the table. Rhaegar knew this was the most his father would speak on his heroics. He always had to ask his mothers or the Kingsguard about the battles his father had fought and won. _He died for us and I will never know how to thank him. How can I ever be worthy enough to wear his crown or carry Blackfyre?_

The great hall was filled with the lords and ladies of the Crownlands. Servants were still emerging from the kitchens, bringing chicken, venison, pork, and more to every table. Rhaegar guessed the hall looked far different than it did before his father’s reign. There was a table for the commanders of the Unsullied and the wives a few of them had. Another three tables were reserved for the Dothraki who remained on Dragonstone, wishing to serve his parents in Westeros instead of the Dothraki Sea.

There was also a table for the smallfolk who called Dragonstone home. As far back as he could remember, Rhaegar knew his father and mothers invited different families to every feast, listening to their troubles and learning what they could do to make their lives better. Rhaegar swore to himself he would continue this tradition once he ruled the castle and its lands.

He always had a seat at the head table on the dais, but Rhaegar preferred where he was, amongst his brothers and sisters. Their table was closest to the dais, near the passageway that led to the kitchens and hallways outside the Great Hall. As he looked around, he knew there were more than two hundred people eating and drinking inside the hall.

While sipping on his northern ale, gifted from the Manderlys of White Harbor, Rhaegar looked to the dais. His father was speaking with Visenya to his right while his mother and Rhaenys spoke with one another. Lord Davos Seaworth and his lady wife also sat at his father’s table with Lord Varys and Lord Celtigar at the end. Missandei and Grey Worm were the advisors who sat closest to his parents.

The left side of the table was saved for his three grandmothers and Lord Monford Velaryon. His grandmother Lyanna seemed amused by something Elia had said, while Queen Rhaella spoke in a hushed tone to her husband, the Master of Ships.

“What do you think Rhaegar?” Eddard asked, sitting next to him with Senya on his other side, leaning forward to hear his answer. He had not been paying attention to their conversation and returned a questioning look to let them know he did not know what he was answering.

“The King’s Tourney. Do you think Aegon can win?” Senya asked. His younger sister was a princess just as beautiful as Arya. They could be confused for twins, but Arya was of average height and had eyes the color of grey storm clouds. Senya was as short as their mother and inherited all her looks. He knew Senya did not care for the tourney, but he knew she would be a fierce champion for any Targaryen competing in the tilts or melee.

“Of course Aegon can win. He’s fighting for me,” Nymeria added cheerfully, laying a kiss upon his brother as they sat across from them. He did not know why, but his eyes turned to Arya sitting next to Nymeria. Everyone was happy and they were surrounded by family, but in that moment, she looked entirely alone.

He wondered what was wrong as Arya stared down at her cup of wine, gently tracing her fingers over its edge like someone who wished to be anywhere else in the world. _She was so happy earlier. What has happened?_

“Not if Jon wins for me,” Dany argued, sipping on an Arbor gold to his right. Dany’s words made Arya flinch and her chin slightly quiver. It was then he put the pieces together. He felt like such a fool. He hated when others only saw one side of Arya, the resilient warrior and wild princess. Now he had done what he cursed others for.

Rhaegar assumed Arya did not care for tourneys. She was his twin and shared similar interests, but he knew there was a soft and gentle heart underneath the armor she had built up. _Curse me, I should have seen it. I am a fool. I will win that tourney for her and place a crown of blue roses on her perfect silver braids. She will be the greatest Queen of Love and Beauty the Realm has ever seen._

“So, what do you think?” Senya asked again, causing Arya to look up from her untouched cup of Dornish red.

“Aye, he could win. Or maybe Jon will,” he answered, keeping his eyes on Arya. _Please, do not suffer. I will tell you after the feast. I will swear it before the old gods and the new. I will train every day and win that crown for you._

“Jon will win!” he heard a voice proclaim from behind. He twisted in his seat to find Torrhen standing behind him. Torrhen was the youngest in their family and wanted to be included in everything. It annoyed many of his brothers, but Rhaegar knew he meant well. Rhaegar moved aside so there was enough space for Torrhen to sit between himself and Dany.

“Hey!” Aegon replied, appalled Torrhen had sided with Jon.

“Where have you been all day? We expected you in the training yard,” he asked Torrhen as everyone else continued on with their conversation.

“We were at the beach. Aeryn helped me catch the fish and find the crabs in the sand,” Torrhen responded. Rhaegar shook his head, wondering if Aeryn was a Targaryen or Velaryon. _He has an affinity for the sea I will never understand._ “I’m sorry. I will train tomorrow. I promise.”

“Don’t be sorry, brother. If you want to fish with Aeryn, fish with Aeryn,” Rhaegar said, hoping he did not upset his little brother.

“I want to be a knight like Father and Ser Arthur. I want to fight like you and Eddard,” Torrhen said. _Father is not a knight, but I understand._

“If you want to learn how to be good with a sword, you must train. It does not come easy. You have to work hard,” he cautioned Torrhen.

“I can do that,” Torrhen replied with a bright smile, full of naïve enthusiasm.

“I will speak with Father and Ser Barristan. One of the knights will begin your training,” he promised, putting an arm over his brother’s shoulder. “And I will try to train you as much as I can.”

“Will you show me how to use two swords?” Torrhen asked.

“When you are old enough and skilled enough,” he replied with a smirk. Arya laughed, listening to the conversation. The sound of her laughter warmed his heart, seeing her not suffering in her sadness. Rhaegar caught himself staring into her grey eyes until he saw Torrhen’s hand sneaking toward his ale. “I don’t think so. You are too young, I am afraid.”

As the feast carried on, Rhaegar ate the venison and stuck to his northern ale as he argued with his brothers about famous swords, which legendary warrior was greater than the other, and more. It took an hour before the feast turned to song and dance. Rhaegar hated both and sat at his table, knowing one of the lords’ daughters were bound to approach him.

He did his best not to brood so he would not hear it from his mother or Arya. Rhaegar did his best to listen to Torrhen and Maekar go on about the most famous names in the White Book. The longer they talked, the more he found himself watching his brothers and sisters on the dance floor. Jon and Dany were not the best dancers, but they were happy together. Nymeria and Aegon looked like they were born to host feasts and hold court with the lords and ladies of the Realm. They were the best dancers he knew. Even Brandon and Sansa were dancing with one another while Valarr and Daenys had found new partners.

 _Seven hells, I should just ask her._ Rhaegar patted his little brothers on the shoulders, silently telling them he was leaving. He was ready to find Arya, but turned around to find Melyssa Rykker nearly running into him, stopping herself with her hands on his chest.

“I’m so sorry, my Prince. I was foolish and wasn’t watching where I was going,” Melyssa said in a sweet voice that may have entranced other boys his age. He could not deny Melyssa was beautiful. She held enchanting eyes, as blue as a winter rose, and dark brown hair that fell down her back like a waterfall. _She could be perfect, but she isn’t Arya._

“The fault is mine, my Lady. I should have taken more care,” Rhaegar replied, playing the honorable prince he would have to be for the rest of his life.

“I must confess, I came here to ask you for a dance. We saw you in the training yard earlier,” Melyssa added, looking over her shoulder to a group of girls around their age. Her friends included Alyssa Farring, Erryka Cargyll, and Alayne Rambton. Each hailed from the lesser Houses of the Crownlands, but that would not matter to Rhaegar if he were to consider them. _More important than lands or gold, their families are loyal._ “My brothers said you were the best swordsmen for your age, but they were wrong. You are better.”

“You are too kind,” he replied with a forced smile. _She is either a sweet girl who knows nothing about fighting or she is a manipulator who wishes to be the Lady of Dragonstone._

“Will you?” she asked, stepping a foot forward so there was little room between them. “Dance with me?”

“Aye,” Rhaegar answered, knowing he could not disrespect a daughter of a fiercely loyal bannerman who held off the Lannisters despite Duskendale’s proximity to King’s Landing during the Wars of the Usurpers. Before he knew it, Melyssa had taken hold of his hand and pulled him toward the dance floor.

The singers stuck to the more cheerful songs popular in the Crownlands as Rhaegar twirled Melyssa Rykker around, keeping her close, but not close enough to offend Arya or give his partner the wrong impression. With every step and every verse, he searched for Arya over Melyssa’s shoulder, hoping to see she was alright.

Halfway through the second song, he saw Arya dancing with Richard Staunton, heir to Rook’s Rest. He was two years older than himself and he had heard how the girls at court spoke of him. For a moment he hoped he would see Arya’s silver braids turnaround and find sadness on her face for being stuck with another. _Gods, what am I thinking? I do not want her to be sad and miserable. I love her. Even if she found another, I would still love her and wish her well. She is my blood._

“What is it like, living in King’s Landing?” Melyssa asked, clutching his shoulder as the second song ended. _She will not let my find another partner unless I force it._

“Well, there are certainly more feasts there than here on Dragonstone,” he offered, not wishing to sound like an ungrateful shit. Rhaegar hated the people drawn to King’s Landing and the royal court, but he never wished for people to think he did not realize the benefits of the House he was born to.

“It sounds wonderful,” Melyssa gave her opinion. _She is true. If she was trying to seduce me and get with child, she would know I am not favorable to feasts and court._

“Duskendale must be a nice place to grow up in,” Rhaegar spoke truthfully. He would have preferred Dragonstone or Winterfell, but he thought well of the town.

“It’s rather boring. Sometimes there are interesting ships that come to port from faraway lands, but it’s rare. I still remember the two times you visited Duskendale,” Melyssa added as they returned to the half-empty table his youngest siblings still occupied. “I had never seen a dragon before. I must have been eight or nine when I looked out of my window and saw twelve dragons flying up the Rosby Road. I saw you ride into my father’s castle and never had the nerve to meet you.”

“I probably would have been too nervous to speak to the daughter of the Lord of Duskendale,” Rhaegar jested as he heard the music turn from a joyous tone. He could hear the singer begin to sing Jenny’s song. _I am not an expert on feasts, but I hope the night does not end with this song._

“A Crown Prince trained by the Kingsguard and brave enough to ride a dragon, afraid of a daughter of House Rykker,” Melyssa jested. Rhaegar liked her company, but not in the way she would want. She was a sweet girl who would make some lucky lord happy one day. _If it is in my power, I will see to it she has a_ _favorable match or one of her choosing._

Before he could respond, Rhaegar saw Arya leaving the hall with a sadness about her. The sight tore at his heart. At first, he looked to the dance floor, searching for one of the sons of a lord who had said something to hurt her. There were no signs of an incident, only couples dancing slowly to the song that filled no one with happiness. _I should have known._

“I am sorry, my Lady, but I must leave you. Please forgive me for this, but I must see to something for my family,” Rhaegar said without telling her the entire truth. For some reason, it felt wrong even telling the girl a half-lie. She did not earn any lies from him.

“Is it something I said? I did not mean to…,” Melyssa tried to apologize as he stood from his seat on the bench at the table.

“It was nothing you did, I assure you. There is something I forgot to see to that cannot wait,” Rhaegar offered, beginning to step away after he laid a gentle kiss on the back of her soft hand.

Leaving Melyssa Rykker behind, Rhaegar marched his way past the tables filled with lords, ladies, soldiers, and smallfolk. He carefully weaved his way past the several gatherings of lords, sure to avoid getting entangled in a long conversation with any of them. Before he could reach the doors at the end of the Great Hall, opposite the dais, he found Nymeria standing there with her arms crossed.

“Arya needs you,” Nymeria said glaring at him with disappointed eyes. Sometimes it haunted him how much she could look like her mother.

“I know,” Rhaegar reassured Nymeria, leaving a gentle peck on his little sister’s cheek before continuing past the guards at the entrance to the hall.

With no one occupying the empty corridors outside the Great Hall except for the occasional guard, Rhaegar hurried to find Arya. Nearly running, he made his way outside, searching the castle grounds for any sign of her silver hair that glowed in the moonlight or her beautiful white dress that complimented her perfect curves just enough without drawing their parents’ scrutiny.

When he did not see her near the training yard or the stables, he knew where he would find her. Rhaegar made his way around the Stone Drum, taking the shortest path to the southern walls that overlooked Blackwater Bay and the cliffs below. It was where Arya liked to go when she was not in her room when storms approached. He could hear the thunder in the distance and knew she would be there.

Relief washed over Rhaegar for the briefest moment when he reached the top of the ramparts and found Arya staring out onto the pitch-black surface of the bay. He could hear the waves crashing below and see the wind blowing the spiraled strands of hair, free from her braids. Even when she was sad, she looked like the most beautiful thing he had ever seen.

A subtle twist of her neck told him she knew he was there and he came behind her without saying a word. Rhaegar just made sure to wrap his arms around her and pull her flush against him. He would hold her like this for the rest of the night if he could. Nothing made him feel quite like she made him feel.

“You never liked that song,” he said, remembering she never liked to hear it. There was never any reason why. Arya just told him once she remembered hearing it as a child and it was the saddest she had ever felt.

“I hate it. It makes me feel like I will never see those I love again. Our family will become ghosts and I will be Jenny, dancing on the damp old stones, alone and without love,” she said with a tremble in her voice. He laid a gentle kiss upon her braid, knowing she hated sounding like this. Since they were little, she was strong and willful. Tears were something she despised.

“I am here, I love you,” he said, hoping she knew that.

“That’s not what I meant. I know you love me. It’s just… It’s just a song. I am being foolish,” Arya said. He could hear it in her voice. _I want her to be happy._

“You aren’t being foolish. The fault is mine,” Rhaegar said, pulling on her a little tighter, afraid to let her go. “I am going to win the King’s Tourney. You are the Queen of Love and Beauty. There isn’t a more beautiful woman in the Realm.”

“But you hate tourneys,” Arya responded.

“I could see it hurt when they were talking about the tourney. I do not want you to hurt. I love you,” Rhaegar whispered into her ear before leaving a kiss on her neck.

“Dany and Nymeria… They deserve it. They are more beautiful than…,” Arya tried to argue. _You will not do this. You will not talk me out of this like you do everything else._

“Aye, they are beautiful. They are more beautiful than all the ladies in the Seven Kingdoms,” he said, feeling Arya’s heart sink and her head dip. “But they are not you. You are more beautiful than them all. You are Crown Princess Arya Targaryen. You will be my wife and the mother of our children. The Lady of Dragonstone and my warrior princess.”

Arya turned around to look up at him with her storm grey eyes. His hand rose to her cheek on reflex, wiping away the tear rolling down her face. Rhaegar did not want to let her go as she leaned into his hand, letting go of the pain she had felt earlier. He was never able to resist her full, inviting lips, and gave into his impulses.

As they sealed their lips, Rhaegar forgot to breathe, lost in his love for her. Arya’s lips were soft and sweet, tasting like a fine Dornish red. He swore he would not be the one to withdraw as he fought to explore her lips and tongue. It was finally Arya who broke apart from their embrace with hooded eyelids, slowly opening to tease him with their beauty.

“I love you,” was all she said, but it was all she needed to say. Rhaegar was not a poet and he did not expect his sister to be one either. _She does not need to say anything. I can see what she feels. I always have, if I pay attention._

Rhaegar loved her beaming smile, carefully admiring it before she stole the moment from him, turning back around to look upon Blackwater Bay. Arya fell back into his arms, laying her small hands upon his. Part of him wanted to slip his hand toward her perfect breasts, daring to dive his fingers under her silk dress. Instead, he thought better of it and did not want to ruin the moment. _Whenever she wants to do other…things, she makes it happen._

From the ramparts with Arya in his arms, he watched the lighting across the sea and listened to the thunder grow louder. The storms were fast approaching and were sure to hit Dragonstone. He knew the weather on Dragonstone and was sure it would rain all night as his eyes judged the storm building strength in the distance.

They remained as they were for what Rhaegar guessed was half an hour before he could see the rainfall around the lightning drawing closer. The waves on the Blackwater only got like this when a heavy rain came through. He could see the waves crashing below, thundering against the rocks. Rhaegar put his mouth against her ear, whispering, “We should go now.”

“No, wait,” Arya protested.

“I can see the rain. What are we waiting for?”

“Something foolish,” she responded in a playful tone. _What does she plan for us to do?_

“Aye, something foolish,” he said, holding her closer as the rainfall neared.

As he predicted, the storm rolled in from the sea and hit Dragonstone with the rain pouring down on them. The sound of the thousands of raindrops hitting the castle walls nearly drowned out the sound of the waves crashing below and the thunder echoing across the sky above. Even as the storm raged around them, all his ears could really hear were Arya’s laugh as their clothes were drenched.

Arya was the only thing keeping him warm as every part of his body not touching her grew cold. Her joy was the only thing preventing the storm from fouling his mood. Rhaegar wondered what had gotten into her, but did not say anything. They were happy and that was all that mattered to him.

“Where are you going?” Rhaegar asked when Arya somehow slipped from his embrace, heading toward the stairs several yards away. She turned around with her braids nearly ruined from the rain and her dress leaving nothing to the imagination. He wanted to rush forward and cover her up in a cloak he did not possess, afraid some lucky fool would see her through her soaked white dress.

“You’ll see,” she said backing away step by step until turning on her heels, leaving him behind.

“What?” he yelled as the thunder roared around them.

“If you can catch me!” Arya yelled, looking over her shoulder before sprinting toward the stairs. Rhaegar trusted her and leapt at her invitation, chasing after her along the ramparts as the downpour increased. He prayed she was careful, running down the stairs in her dress, across the yard in the direction of the Stone Drum.

It was only when they ran through the rain and into the cover of the Stone Drum that Rhaegar heard Arya’s laughs echoing through the halls. He wondered where she was leading them until she ran up the stairs leading toward the chambers saved for their family. _She is leading me into some sort of trap, I know it._

When he reached the end of the stairs and passed the two Unsullied guarding the front of the corridor, Rhaegar glimpsed her silver hair disappearing into her quarters. The only thing he could hear was the sound of his boots hitting the stone floor, telling him his family was still at the feast. Arya’s door was still open for him and he closed it behind him, trying to keep whatever warmth was inside from escaping.

Inside, he found Snowstorm, her direwolf who was fully grown with white fur. Rhaegar ran his fingers over the direwolf’s snout before rounding the corner to walk through Arya’s small solar, failing to find her. He continued his path toward her bedchamber, finding her standing in front of her bed.

“You succeeded in getting my clothes drenched. What are we doing here?” he asked, looking around her room that was illuminated by a dozen or so candles. Arya looked more beautiful than ever and he wanted to kiss her again.

“You really are my fool,” she said, slipping her fingers to the shoulders of her white silk dress. His heart skipped a beat as she carefully pulled the wet silk down as it clung to her skin. Her breasts were the first thing to come into view, until the dress pooled at her feet and his eyes fell to her cunt. “Make love to me.”

“Arya…I…” he tried to come up with some excuse, but his hands thought otherwise as he worked on his doublet. He had seen her naked before and pleasured her cunt, but they had never made love. They were careful when they did explore one another. _This isn’t careful and I do not care._

“What? You do not like what you see?” she said in a seductive tone as she slowly approached, swaying her hips. He could not decide if he wanted to focus on her perfect breasts or her wet cunt. Her fingers stopped his own because he was fumbling to remove his shirt. Rhaegar was nervous and felt like he could do nothing to calm himself.

“I do, Arya. I…,” he did not know what to say, but he did not have to when she undid his belt and cast it to the floor. Before he could finish removing his shirt, she was violently pulling his breeches down and his smallclothes with them. The second his last shirt was pulled off, her fingers were wrapped firmly around his hard cock.

She was slowly stroking him as his tip hit her stomach, throbbing to be inside her. He no longer felt cold, not with her. Her other hand wiped away the wet strands of hair sticking to his face before he plunged his tongue into her mouth, pushing them back toward her empty bed. Step by step, Arya stroked faster until the back of her legs hit the side of the bed and she fell onto the silk sheets.

Neither said a word as Arya spread her legs for him, inviting him to fill her with his seed. Rhaegar could not tell if he was rushing it or going too slowly, but he attempted to ease his way down, taking his place over her. Both his hands were planted on the bed around of her face while he gazed into her eyes.

His eyes darted back and forth, committing every inch of her face to memory as he felt her legs rubbing against the back of his own, trying to pull him down. Slowly, he reached down to guide his cock to her wet folds begging for him to fuck her. The second he hit her warmth, he feared he would spill and ruin everything.

“It’s alright, I am ready,” she encouraged him. “Make love to me, Rhaegar.”

She was perfect for him. Her cunt was warmer than dragonfire and wetter than the rain that fell upon them. Reminding himself of what he had heard from others, he eased his way deeper and deeper into Arya until he could go no further. He hesitated seeing the hitch in her breath, but continued when he felt her hips move, wanting more.

When one of her hands slid to her breasts, teasing her own nipple, Rhaegar began to slowly thrust his hips. Each collision earned a soft whimper from Arya, only encouraging him to quicken his pace. She seemed to love it and he could not deny it was better than anything they had done before.

“Please Brother….faster…just…” Arya moaned in High Valyrian until he hit the back of her walls, earning a pained look on her face. He froze and tried to withdraw, but her strong legs kept him in place. _I ruined this._ “No, don’t stop. Keep going, my love.”

Part of him wanted to argue, but his body refused to abandon her cunt as he returned to the pace he was at before. The sound of their wet skin colliding filled the room, with her weak cries of pleasure only adding to the noise that could get them caught. Rhaegar did not care as he watched Arya fondle her perfect, pink nipples as her breasts rippled with every thrust that passed through her body.

The closer he felt himself getting ready to spill, he forced himself to look into her eyes. Her body was beautiful and he was sure it was sculpted by some Valyrian god, but he loved her face. If there was only one thing he could stare at for the rest of his life, it was Arya’s beautiful face.

He could feel himself filling her more as he admired her gorgeous eyes, plump lips, full eyebrows, perfect nose, and silver Valyrian hair. It was all perfect and just for him. _She is mine and I am hers. I will never betray her._

“Oh…Rhaegar…Brother…my…” her words failed as her walls closed in on his cock.

“Arya…gods…” he responded in their mother tongue as he lost control, spilling into her cunt, coating her walls with his seed. His final thrusts were unplanned and uncontrolled. Rhaegar was sure he spilled into her with four strong thrusts before falling into her arms with his face nuzzled into the crook of her neck.

“I am sorry, I should have lasted longer. You didn’t,” he tried to apologize before her fingers came to rest on his lips.

“You were perfect. I liked it and we can always get better with practice,” she said, her eyes glancing down toward their hips.

“I like the sound of that,” Rhaegar replied with a laugh, running his hands through her soaked hair. “I can go again if you want.”

“Is that so?” Arya smirked before pushing him over onto his back and rolling on top of him so her cunt was resting on his waist. His cock was already hard again, hitting her perfect ass. Rhaegar moved his hands up her thighs to her waist as his eyes admired her body that was covered in a mix of sweat and rain.

This time, Arya took control, lifting herself off his waist and grabbing his cock so she could ride him. Like before, her cunt was tight and perfect for him, trying to milk the seed from his cock without any effort.

Arya moved slowly and gently, rolling her hips back and forth, side to side. While one of her hands continued to play with her breast, he raised his hand to grab the other. His teasing earned a whimper and the sound of his name failing on her breath.

When her back arched as he fondled her breast, he let it fall to the small thatch of silver hair above her cunt. And finally, his thumb found her nub, circling it as he had done dozens of times before. Rhaegar did not know if it was his efforts or her own that pushed Arya to begin riding his cock.

Rhaegar took his time, or so he thought. Arya was furious and wild, surprising him as she bounced on his cock. She was going faster than he expected, having heard it hurt girls their first time. He wondered if she was fighting the pain to please him. He selfishly held his tongue, too consumed by the pleasure she was bringing him.

He wanted Arya to find pleasure and continued to please her clit, focusing on nothing else, even if he was staring at her bouncing breasts. It was better than he imagined or dreamed. Her soft screams were beginning to grow louder, telling him she was more than fine with his cock filling her.

“Rhaegar… my love….Rhae…Rhaegar…” she moaned, moving up and down his cock. Her ass and thighs hitting his hips only made it clearer what was happening in her chambers. _I do not care if we are caught. This is right. She will be my Queen._

“Arya, fuck…, you are so tight for me,” he responded in Valyrian, moving his fingers quicker over her nub, coaxing more out of her.

“Faster brother…faster,” she commanded. _I can’t, you are on top._ He did not know what to do, but thrust as much as he could, barely moving off the bed as their hips crashed. “There, there…right there!”

Rhaegar felt fortunate he lasted as long as he did, cumming as the final words left her mouth before nothing but cries of pleasure escaped her lips. She was cumming with him as her walls closed around him, somehow getting wetter for him. And when she did cum, her back arched as her chest heaved up and down. _Gods, I do not deserve her._

Arya then fell into his arms, lying her head on his chest with her hands barely grasping his shoulders with any real strength. She was as spent as he was and for some reason, it made him proud. Their first time was perfect and right. _I pray she feels the same. I never want to disappoint her._

“Don’t leave me,” Arya said after they laid like that for some time.

“Leave you? I would never leave you. You are all I ever wanted. The only thing I ever wanted,” Rhaegar replied, running his hand along her back after kneading her ass longer than he should.

“I did not mean it like that. I meant, do not leave tonight. Stay here, with me. I want to wake up in your arms. It will sound silly, but it’s always how I dreamt it,” she confessed, sounding a little unsure of herself. She was vulnerable and Arya was never vulnerable to anyone except himself.

“It does not sound silly. I will stay. I want to,” he told her truthfully. They would likely be caught, but he did not care now. If so, he was willing to face whatever consequences would come of it.

“Good, because you didn’t have a choice,” Arya said in a playful tone, leaving a peck on his chest. “You are mine and I am yours.”

With Arya’s leg entangled with his own and her arms draped across his chest, Rhaegar wanted to fall asleep like this every night. Somehow things felt different between them while still being the same. They spent the rest of the night watching the lightning outside her chambers illuminate the room and talked about the future they would share on Dragonstone. Sleep only took them when the storm died away and their conversation turned to the morrow.

**King Jon Targaryen**

He was surprised to find himself the last to be awake in his bed. It was always either himself or Visenya waking first. If he was not making love to his Queens in the morning, he was in the training yard sparring with Visenya and the Kingsguard before his kingly duties. This morning was the latter. He still felt exhausted from the previous night from his wives’ relentless attacks and his need to please them.

Jon searched for Daenerys, but did not find her in the bed and did not see her in the bedchamber. Rhaenys was the one to wake him, leaving a trail of kisses along the scar that marked his chest. It no longer hurt and he did not lose any sleep from his death, but his wives still continued their morning ritual. When Rhaenys looked up and found him awake, she gave him a loving smile as her hips involuntarily thrust into his side.

“The sun hasn’t come up yet. What are you doing awake?” he asked as candlelight still illuminated their room with the sky turning from black to a dark blue outside their bedchamber. Jon couldn’t resist running his hand through her soft, flowing hair as he waited for her answer.

“Daenerys woke me. She is looking into important matters,” Rhaenys replied, leaving another kiss on his scar with a smirk on her lips. _What are they up to?_

“Important matters?” he questioned with a small laugh.

“Aye, important matters,” Visenya laid her hand upon his jaw, turning his head so he would face her. Jon wanted to look upon her beautiful face, but closed his eyes as she captured his lips with a passionate kiss that could lead to him fucking her before their training.

“I saw Renfred Rykker and Simon Staunton speaking with you at the feast. What did they want? I know it wasn’t anything they discussed when they arrived,” Rhaenys inquired, rightfully surmising the lords came to him with another agenda.

“Lord Renfred came to me about Duskendale’s trade with Myr and Tyrosh. Their fishermen and captains aren’t happy with the harbormasters. But that wasn’t why he approached me. He saw his granddaughter dancing with Rhaegar and was asking whether we were seeking a betrothal,” Jon said, now unfazed by the unending pestering from the lords of Westeros, seeking a betrothal for their daughters to his heir. And if he did not give them the answer they wanted, they usually asked about his other children.

“And Simon Staunton?” Rhaenys asked.

“He asked the same. I think his granddaughter was looking for Rhaegar, but he had already left the feast,” Jon answered. It was not unusual for Rhaegar to leave a feast as soon as he could, detesting them as much as Jon did.

“He went chasing after Arya when she left the Great Hall. She looked upset about something,” Visenya added. _I did not notice. Why didn’t she come to us?_

“They are in her chambers,” Daenerys declared, walking into their bedchambers in her white silk chemise that barely reached halfway down her inviting thighs. Jon had little time to admire how beautiful she looked in it before she pulled it off and threw it to the floor. He could feel his already hard cock get even harder as she crawled across the bed, taking her place on top of him.

“How could you tell?” Rhaenys asked.

“Frost was standing guard outside her door,” Daenerys referred to his son’s white direwolf. The wolf was one of Ghost’s and inherited his red eyes and white fur. _Would Ghost have given us up if I had him? Would Snow? Rhaegar is unlucky._

“Leave them be,” he said, knowing his wives wanted them to wed. They knew Rhaegar and Arya had been sneaking around with one another. Neither of their children were as good of liars as they thought.

“Do you think it was their first time?” Daenerys asked, running her fingers through his hair.

“I would rather not think about it,” Jon said. He would not stop them, knowing his own past. _As long as Rhaegar respects Arya and does not betray her._

“I hope it was. They were meant for each other,” Visenya said. Her wish drove Jon further into his pillow, looking up at the ceiling above him. _If it were up to her, all our children would be betrothed and wed to one another._ “What, you disagree?”

“No, I agree with you, but we should not interfere. Let them decide what they want to do. If they truly love each other, you won’t have to wait long for them to wed. Are you so ready to become a grandmother?” he asked, earning a slap on his chest from Daenerys.

“Do not dare to call me that. I am too young for that,” Daenerys warned him. Jon held his tongue, knowing his mother and grandmother were not much older than Daenerys when they were grandmothers.

“Where do you think they will wed?” Visenya asked.

“Let us worry about the wedding when the day should come,” he replied, confident Rhaegar would ask for Arya to be his Queen one day.

“We are just happy for them, that’s all. I remember when we were their age, dreaming about our wedding and raising children at Summerhall,” Daenerys reminded him of the dreams they would share. For hours, they would talk in her chambers or his, about their future.

“Speaking of Summerhall, I would very much like to return,” Rhaenys spoke up as he felt her hand slowly stroking his cock.

“After the King’s Tourney?” Visenya added.

“Aye, after the…,” Rhaenys cut him off before he could continue, plunging her tongue into his mouth as she quickened her strokes. Jon wanted to protest, but her lips and her skilled hand convinced him the training yard could wait.

While Rhaenys kept him from breathing, battling his tongue with her own, her strokes came to a halt. She had teased him and coaxed him to the edge, only to withdraw. He wanted to curse her until he felt Daenerys replacing Rhaenys’ hand, guiding his cock into her wet cunt. They had him at their mercy and he was glad for it.

“Oh…Jon right there…Visenya….oh…mmmm,” Daenerys moaned as she sheathed his cock in her folds. She was still as tight as she was the first time they made love in Summerhall and he never grew tired of the feeling of being inside her. Jon did not expect it, but his life was even better with Rhaenys and Visenya in it, especially in their bedchamber.

“My loves…,” Visenya sighed, running her fingers along Daenerys’ clit, sitting behind her as Daenerys began to ride his cock. Jon only had seconds to admire the sight, his two beautiful wives with their traditional Valyrian beauty, pleasing him and themselves.

“Rhae…,” he let out when his older sister swung her leg over his torso and straddled his stomach, blocking his view of Daenerys rolling her hips. Rhaenys’ large breasts were there, waiting for him, and he did not resist the urge to take both in his hands. Carefully, he kneaded her breasts until he focused on her nipples, turning each into a hardened peak. The moment she arched her back in satisfaction, he took one in his mouth. Jon only let go when he heard a whimper from Rhaenys and pulled her down so he could silence her sobs with a searing kiss.

“Jon…Senya…my…,” Daenerys’ voice was failing her as her moans turned into cries of High Valyrian. He could barely make out her words. He was too consumed by the feel of her walls begging for his seed while Rhaenys bit his bottom lip. _Seven hells._

The small taste of blood only seemed to wake the dragon inside Rhaenys even more, causing her to plunge her tongue deeper into his mouth. He responded in kind, grabbing a handful of her smooth hair, free from its braids. His other hand smacked her ass before greedily kneading her cheek, occasionally teasing her rosebud with his fingers.

Jon held out for as long as he could until Daenerys became too much for him. He could feel her walls closing on him as the sound of their skin colliding filled their chambers when her cries did not. The moment he felt her body writhe on top of him, no longer riding him with her determined control, he gave her his seed.

“Dany…,” he let out as he came. He felt exhausted and wondered if it would show when they reached the training yard. Rhaenys rolled off of him, lying beside him on the bed with her head on his shoulder. They both stared at Daenerys’ heaving chest. She was trying to collect her breath. Jon couldn’t help himself again and reached for the breast that wasn’t taken by Visenya. Daenerys liked it, smiling while her eyes were half-hooded, coming down from her ecstasy. “Gods, you are beautiful.”

After Daenerys collapsed onto his chest, they laid like that for several minutes. Jon ran his hand through her silver mane, cherishing the smell and feel of her lying on top of him with Rhaenys and Visenya cuddled up against his sides. _Let there be thousands of more mornings, just like this one. I never want lose this._

“Jon, we must leave,” Visenya reminded him of their morning spar. Ser Arthur and Ser Oswell were likely waiting outside their chambers.

“No, stay here,” Rhaenys moaned, nuzzling into his neck while her fingers dug into his chest, holding him in place. “Go away, you evil witch. You are trying to take my husband away from me.”

“How many times did I offer to teach you how to wield a sword? You could be sparring with us,” Visenya returned in a jesting tone. _That isn’t Rhaenys. I believe she would be great, but that’s not her._

“You do realize, sweet sister, the men in the yard will see you have done more than sparring this morning,” Rhaenys said, reminding Jon of the state of Visenya’s silver hair. It hung loose and free, but tangled by himself or Rhaenys, or Daenerys.

“Let them see my King loves me. And for that comment, I think I shall steal him away on our way back,” Visenya responded, turning her gaze from Rhaenys to himself. The smirk on her lips told him she was serious. “He can make love to me in the Throne Room.”

“Are you trying to make me go mad?” he asked, finally easing Daenerys off himself to climb out of their bed. He prayed she was not teasing him. He had made love to his Queens in the Throne Room before whenever they felt foolish and knew they could get away with it.

“Aye, mad with lust for your Queen,” Visenya said, coming behind him to lay a kiss on his shoulder as he searched for clothes suitable for the training yard.

They were into their final spar, dancing around one another, waiting for the other to make the first move. Jon was plotting his attack and defense, knowing there was no need to hold back. He had not held back in years. Visenya was already great with sword before he was exiled to Essos. During their years in Essos, before the war against the Dead, she had little time to train because of her pregnancies.

After the war, no one could doubt she was as skilled as himself, the Kingsguard, and even Ser Arthur Dayne. He paid close attention to her steps, knowing her eyes could be deceiving and her speed more than made up for her lesser strength. _If I am not careful, she will have me on my back in the dirt._

When they began their training, the yard was quiet and empty. Only Ser Arthur and Ser Oswell were present besides the guards who stood at their posts, night and day. Now, Jon could see Ser Jonothor Darry, stableboys, Dothraki warriors, boys and girls from the Houses of the Crownlands, and his children, all watching. _We started too late._

Visenya was the first to strike, aiming her blunted practice sword at his ribs. Her strikes before came at his legs and head, but the last was for his ribs. Jon knew she would repeat her most recent strike, expecting him to look for another angle of attack. His parry was well placed, leading to the beginning of a vigorous duel.

In a bid to turn the dynamics of the spar, Jon pushed his way forward with rushed swings, knowing none would see victory. He just wanted his Queen on the defensive, losing ground so he could decide where the attacks came. After landing several high blows to Visenya’s practice sword, Jon feinted to his right, hoping she kept a watchful eye on his feet.

As soon as he began his feint, Jon shifted to bring his sword from the left, attempting to strike at her thighs. His plan was folly, finding Visenya ready and unimpressed by his strike.

“You can do better, my love,” Visenya stated in a hushed voice, ensuring it was only his ears that heard her. If it wasn’t for the dozens of people watching, he would have thrown his sword to the ground and taken her right there. Visenya looked beautiful, covered in a sheen of sweat with her silver hair held together by a single band.

Accepting her invitation, Jon backed away for a brief reprieve, looking for his next possible strike or feint that could end their spar. He had already won four of their six previous spars, but the last one was always the one that mattered. Visenya began to twirl her sword, readying her reflexes for the coming blow.

Jon was not sure, but he thought her relaxed attitude and easy movements were a farce, covering for her tiredness. Giving her only a few seconds after his decision, he stepped forward across the wet ground from the heavy rains in the night. He closed the distance as fast as he could, striking down with almost all of his strength, ready to pull away in case he might come close to landing a blow to her head.

His wife did not disappoint, showing her years of training and valuable battle experience, deflecting the blow. A quick sidestep to his left earned Visenya the chance to swing her sword away and swipe at his undefended side. Jon felt himself fortunate to be quick enough to parry her blow, bringing them face to face, inches apart. _If this were a real fight, she would have a dagger in my eye right now._

In his moment of weakness, distracted by the memory of her fighting at Castle Black, he felt a dull pain hit his ankle, knocking his leg from underneath him. Before his back hit the ground, Jon knew this would have been the fate of their spar regardless of his distraction. Visenya pulled him in close, gave him a glimpse of victory, and stole it away as he had done earlier in the morning.

“I yield!” he proclaimed with the blunted sword laying upon his neck as a smirk played across Visenya’s lips before she arched her brow. Most men would have been ashamed to lose to a woman and especially their wife. Jon only loved her more, proud she had perfected a craft she had studied since they rode north to Winterfell as children.

“Not bad, for a King,” Visenya said as he pushed off the ground to stand on his feet again, taking her offered hand of assistance as he stood. He couldn’t help but smile as the little girls around the yard cheered for his sister-wife. Many girls around the Realm saw Queen Visenya as a heroine, able to ride a dragon and wield a Valyrian steel sword.

“Not bad, for a Queen,” he returned her compliment with a smile as they walked from center of the training yard. Ser Arthur’s squire, Michael Blackmont, came to them to collect their practice swords. Jon had seen the boy practice in the yard with Rhaegar and Eddard several times before. _He will make a fine knight, perhaps even a Kingsguard._

Waiting for them at the edge of the yard, against the castle walls amongst stacks of wooden crates sat several of their children. The first of his children he went to were three of his biggest supporters, his youngest daughters who cheered him. Allyria was only nine, but tall for her age, inheriting all of Rhaenys’ features, except for her raven hair that was arranged in a complicated braid. _She will be good with a sword one day. I can see it in her eyes._

“Father!” Allyria rushed into his open arms. Jon held her close, leaving a small peck on her brow before kneeling in front of Alysanne and Vaella. Both twins were difficult to tell apart for those outside their family. Those closest to them usually could not tell them apart if they did not know Alysanne preferred a northern braid while Vaella liked to wear hers in the more complex fashion.

“You were supposed to win Father,” Alysanne said, looking disappointed.

“Your mother is skilled with a sword. I can’t always win,” he whispered, kissing her silver mane before doing the same to Vaella. After doing so, he watched both run off toward the Stone Drum. They were only ever interested in the sparring if he was partaking.

“You are the greatest swordsman to ever live. It’s all they’ve heard their entire life,” his daughter Dany approached, carrying Blackfyre in its scabbard. She looked more and more like her mother every day, preferring riding breeches to dresses and wearing a sword on her belt. She continued with a whisper, “It is alright, I won’t tell anyone. You let Mother win.”

“I did not let your Mother win and I am certainly not the greatest swordsman to ever live,” he argued. _That honor goes to Ser Arthur._

“You saved a Lord Commander beyond the Wall. You killed a Dothraki khal and his bloodriders by yourself. You won the Battle of Castle Black and fought your way through Volantis. You killed Euron Greyjoy, the Mountain, and took back the Red Keep,” Dany recited the stories she had heard a thousand times, but never from him.

“Do not believe everything you hear, my sweet daughter. None of them were as skilled as you think,” Jon informed her, taking Blackfyre from her hands.

“You killed white walkers. You killed the Night King!” Dany said enthusiastically, but he could not share her enthusiasm. The memory only brought him pain and fear. _I lost everything. I was dead and would have never seen Dany grow into the Princess she is._

Dany’s face fell, seeing his reaction. Jon cursed himself, letting his past make his daughter feel any sort of regret. “I’m sorry Father. I didn’t mean to….”

“Never apologize, not to me,” Jon warned Dany, pulling her in for a hug. “And do not doubt your Mother. I do not doubt you when I watch you sparring with your brothers.”

“Jon lets me win sometimes…He tries to hide it, but I can tell,” Dany admitted, stepping out of their embrace.

“I used to let your mother win. He does it because he loves you,” Jon confessed, earning a knowing look from his daughter. He could see she loved her brother as she turned her eyes to his namesake across the yard.

“Aye, he does,” Dany confirmed with a longing gaze. The image his children presented made him feel like he was looking into the past, his past.

“Does he treat you well?” he asked, knowing the answer. _Of course Jon does. I know my son._

“If he did not, I would have stuck him with the pointy end,” Dany jested, smiling as she raised the tip of her practice sword that was not ideal for making her point. “You do not need to be so protective Father. Dragons can protect themselves.”

“I cannot help it. You are my daughter, I will always protect you,” Jon warned Dany with a comforting hand on her shoulder. Dany was independent and fierce like Arya, but he was grateful she accepted his affection, placing her hand over his with a gentle squeeze.

“Shall we?” he heard Visenya coming behind him.

“Aye,” Jon replied, slowly pulling his hand off Dany’s shoulder to let her go about her day. Before they moved an inch, Jon stepped closer to remove a smudge of dirt on his Queen’s cheek. Visenya’s skin was smooth, but aflame. She was the blood of the dragon and sparring only made her more so. _How did I never see it all those years ago? She was right in front of me?_

“Eddard and Jon fight well,” she commented as they walked along the edge of the training yard, passing the onlookers who watched his sons spar. _Eddard relies too much on his strength. I should speak with him later._ “Rhaegar and Arya are still absent.”

“They could be flying Viserion and Rhaegal,” he offered, causing Visenya to roll her eyes at him. “Do not get your hopes up. I do not think there will be a wedding in the godswood before the next moon.”

“I am just happy for our children. I want them to find love like we did,” Visenya replied, snaking her arm around his as she leant into his side. _You also want grandchildren who are dragonriders with the name Targaryen._

Arthur Dayne and Oswell Whent followed them out of the yard, into the Stone Drum. Jonothor Darry stayed behind to instruct the princes and princesses as the castle bristled with life as the sun rose in the sky. Inside the keep, Jon made his way through the halls with Visenya to return to their chambers. There was still a Small Council meeting planned and he needed to speak with Lord Tarth before he set sail for the Sapphire Isles.

While the training yard was busy with the clattering of steel and the cheers of children watching the swordplay, the corridors of Dragonstone were silent. The castle was not the Red Keep and presented a far more relaxed life for his family. It was why Jon always made sure they visited their ancestral home several months out of every year, to get away from the trappings of King’s Landing.

But Jon was reminded there was no escaping the politics of Westeros and Essos when he saw Lord Davos Seaworth and Ser Jorah Mormont waiting for them in the corridor leading to the stairs that climbed the keep. Davos’ stern look told him the news was not terrible, but it certainly would not be pleasant.

“Your Graces,” both of their loyal advisors greeted them. Davos was an old man, but he had not lost any of his wit, nor mobility. The Hand to the King never claimed to be a good fighter, but Jon guessed Davos would still make for a formidable opponent in the field. Sometimes he worried how many years left he had with Davos at his side. _A King has never had a better Hand. I pray he does not decide to return to Cape Wrath. I would if I were him._

“What is it?” Jon asked as their advisors fell in behind them.

“You were right, my King. The High Septon and his council are behind some of the recent preaching,” Jorah confirmed his earlier suspicions. Varys was quick to learn of self-proclaimed septons and a few official septons denouncing House Targaryen. _They have been patient for many years. Now they are testing our resolve._

“One of the Most Devout is cousin to Lord Leyton,” Davos added, furthering his growing suspicions of the Lord of Oldtown. The Hightowers were the richest House in the Seven Kingdoms that did not rule one of the seven and Jon always thought Leyton Hightower sought more power.

“Is it his doing?” Visenya asked, not hiding her contempt for the Hightowers.

“We do not know, your Grace. Varys has sent his little birds to Hightower and the Starry Sept. It will not be long before we know,” Davos answered.

“Should we ready plans to remove the High Septon and his followers?” Jorah asked, reminding Jon of the knight’s hatred for House Targaryen’s enemies. The formerly disgraced and exiled knight had become a man they could trust with their lives. Jon knew Jorah would advise their removal and some punishment for House Hightower, considering his past. _He does not say it, but his wife’s betrayal still hurts him._

“No, we will not act until we must,” Jon ordered, knowing he did not want to inflame House Targaryen’s relationship with the Faith of the Seven. The more religious of the people still held contempt for their acceptance of other faiths in Westeros and Essos. The royal marriages before a weirwood tree only added to the Faith’s mistrust.

“And House Hightower?” Davos asked as they reached the end of the corridor and started to climb the stone stairs that reached the top of the Stone Drum.

“We could send a raven to Pyke,” Jorah suggested. Jon knew where he was going with his suggestion. It would have been a sound tactic in the past, before their House had become so powerful. The Greyjoys could have been used to harass ships going in and out of Oldtown, dissuading trade with the city controlled by the Hightowers.

“No, we will not do that,” Jon replied, earning a nod of approval from Visenya. She knew as well as he, the lords of the Seven Kingdoms would know it was their order. House Greyjoy had kept the Ironborn in check and the Sunset Sea had been free of their raids since their coronation. “We will watch and listen. Do not let these septons spread their teachings beyond Oldtown.”

“I will send a raven to Highgarden. I am sure Willas and Allyria have spies of their own in the Starry Sept,” Visenya promised. _She knows as well as I do this must not spread from Oldtown._

“Forgive me, your Grace, but are you sure you can trust Lord Willas? His mother is a Hightower,” Davos cautioned. _He is not wrong to worry, but I trust Allyria and I trust Willas._

“I am sure, Davos,” Visenya replied in a courteous tone, never taking offence to their Hand’s counsel. They always demanded he speak truly, even when they knew Davos would do so regardless.

“Is that all?” he asked Davos and Jorah once they reached the hallway leading to the royal quarters on the top floor of the Stone Drum. Jon turned around to face both men, sensing Davos had more to say.

“There is also the matter of the Lhazareen,” Davos reminded him of the Lhazareen’s bid to join their kingdom. Jon was hesitant to welcome Lhazar, knowing they had little to offer through trade or armies. Their defense would likely fall to the Dothraki and Jon was concerned a further expansion of their borders would draw them into a war with the kingdoms in the east.

“We will discuss Lhazar at the Small Council meeting,” he declared, bidding both men farewell. When he turned toward the King’s Chambers at the end of the corridor, he saw Ghost and Silver waiting for them with Brienne of Tarth standing guard.

“I do not trust them,” Visenya said as they walked toward their room. _Who?_ Visenya must have heard his thoughts, continuing, “The Hightowers. We must keep an eye on them at the King’s Tourney.”

“I agree, they are not to be trusted, but they are no true threat to us,” Jon tried to calm Visenya’s concern.

“Listen to me, they will try to take whatever they can. Lord Leyton’s granddaughter is a harlot with eyes for a prince. She will try to seduce one of our sons. She will try to get in our family and split us apart,” Visenya pleaded, digging her nails into his arm.

“This isn’t the Dance of Dragons and our sons are not King Viserys,” Jon warned Visenya. _You have never liked House Hightower since you read about the Dance when you were a little girl._

“No, but Meredyth Hightower is Alicent,” Visenya responded with hatred in her voice.

“I trust our sons. They will not fall for some girl tempting them with a place in her bed,” Jon argued, assured in his belief of the princes they had raised. _If one of them were to betray their sisters, I do not know them at all._

“I do as well, but we must be careful,” Visenya said as Brienne stepped aside so they could enter their chambers.

“I will speak with our sons before we return to King’s Landing. I’ll remind them of their duty to our House and the ones they love,” he promised Visenya. She kissed his cheek before rushing off to their bedchamber, pleased with his words. _They do not need to hear me say it again, but I will do it for her. Dragons have already stolen their hearts._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There will be more original characters introduced in future chapters from Houses Stark, Arryn, Baratheon, Tyrell, & Martell. Not sure how regularly this fic will be updated. No war is planned for this fic. It will mostly cover the Targaryen family, their struggles to rule two continents, raising their children, and the children learning to grow up w/ great power and all that comes with it.
> 
> Please leave any questions, comments, criticisms, & requests (POVs, etc.) in the comments section.
> 
> Here are the character ages and descriptions for the children because there are so many:  
> Jon, 32  
> Daenerys, 31.5  
> Visenya, 31  
> Rhaenys, 34  
> Lyanna Stark, 49  
> Elia Martell, 51  
> Rhaella Targaryen, 68
> 
> 298 – Rhaegar (violet eyes/black hair), Arya (grey eyes/silver hair), 15  
> 299 – Eddard (grey/black), Visenya (violet/silver), 14  
> 300 – Aemon (violet/silver), Naerys (violet/silver), 13  
> 301 – Benjen (grey/black), Daemon (violet/black), 12  
> 302 – Lyanna (grey/black), Rhaenys (violet/black), 11  
> 303 – Daeron (violet/silver), Rhaella (violet/silver), 10
> 
> 299 – Jon (grey/black), Daenerys (violet/silver), 14  
> 300 – Brandon (violet/black), Sansa (violet/silver), 13  
> 301 – Rickard (violet/black), Rhaenyra (violet/black), 12  
> 302 – Jaehaerys (violet/silver), Lyarra (grey/black). 11  
> 303 – Robb (grey/silver), Maekar (violet/silver), 10  
> 304 – Alysanne (violet/silver), Vaella (violet/silver), 9
> 
> 299 – Aegon (violet/silver), Nymeria (violet/dark brown), 14  
> 300 – Valarr (violet/silver), Daenys (violet/silver), 13  
> 301 – Aeryn (violet/black), Edric (grey/black), 12  
> 302 – Viserra (violet/silver), Ashara (violet/black hair), 11  
> 303 – Maelor (grey/black), Elia (grey/dark brown), 10  
> 304 – Torrhen (grey/black), Allyria (violet/black), 9
> 
> Small Council: Davos/Hand, Varys/Whispers, Monford Velaryon/Ships, Stannis/War, Ardrian Celtigar/Coin, Yohn Royce/Laws, Barristan Selmy/ LC of Kingsguard, Pylos/Grand Maester, Grey Worm/Commander of Unsullied, Missandei/Advisor, Jorah Mormont/Advisor
> 
> Kingsguard: Barristan Selmy, Arthur Dayne, Oswell Whent, Jonothor Darry, Brienne of Tarth, Garlan Tyrell, Simon Sunglass


	2. Dragons Are Meant for Dragons

**Crown Princess Arya Targaryen**

The warmth of sunlight hitting her skin and the unfamiliarity of her own bed woke Arya from her slumber. Her white silk sheets were the same as was her pillow, but she was not lying in her usual place. As her eyes fluttered open, panic was all she felt, worrying the previous night was just a dream.

Arya did not know if it was chance or her brother’s intuition, but her nerves were calmed by the touch of his warm hands caressing her skin. Even better than one of his hands greedily cupping a breast with the other settled on her stomach, she could feel his length pressed against her ass. It felt good and it felt right. _I want to wake like this every morning. I cannot wake alone, not after this._

Wondering if Rhaegar was awake, Arya moved her hips back into his own, savoring the feeling of his cock resting against her cheeks. She quickly found her answer, hearing a pleasant groan from Rhaegar. His arms pulled her closer and she readily complied, loving the feeling of him holding her close. _I was always meant to be his, always._

“I should leave,” Rhaegar whispered against her ear. He did not seem convinced by his own words and she did not feel his body try to retreat from the bed.

“Aye, you should,” Arya replied as she ran her leg up and down his own, cherishing the feeling of their limbs entangled with one another. This was the only time they had to truly show the other how they felt and Arya was not going to let the moment slip through her fingers.

“Last night was…,” Rhaegar tried to find the words to describe their first time, but failed. Arya could hear it in his voice. His tone was that of a joyous prince who had won her heart and claimed her as his princess. Arya smiled, just thinking of all the girls at court who sought her brother’s hand and only heard the brooding tone he saved for them. _I make him happy and make him laugh, not them._

“Perfect?” she finished with a giggle, looking out toward her window. There were dragons flying in the distance, but they were too far away for her to identify.

“Better than perfect. They haven’t come up with the words to describe Princess Arya Targaryen,” Rhaegar responded before leaving a kiss just behind her ear. His warm lips on her skin made her crave for more. She wanted Rhaegar inside her again, filling her with his hot seed.

“Mmm…In love,” she offered after a soft whimper. Rhaegar was waking the dragon inside her, sliding his hand from her stomach to her small thatch of silver hair just above her cunt. Doing her best to relieve the tension, she rubbed her legs together, expecting him to find her nub. Instead, he tortured her, keeping his skilled fingers just far enough away to make her want to curse his name.

“I will tell Father and Mother today that you will be my wife. We do not need to hide anymore,” Rhaegar said, causing Arya to still. She hid their relationship because he asked it. Arya never cared who knew, but now that he offered to announce their betrothal to their parents and eventually the Realm, she wanted to stop him. “I was selfish and I am sorry. I…”

Arya twisted her body and rolled over so she could face Rhaegar, holding a finger to his moving lips. “No, I want things to remain as they were. I hate seeing these ladies throw themselves at you, but I know you would never betray me. And I like keeping this secret, the sneaking around, and not having others try to interfere. It’s just us.”

“You want everything to remain as it was?” Rhaegar asked, hinting at what they had just done.

“Well, maybe not everything,” Arya replied, sliding one leg over his as she dove in to kiss him. She couldn’t stop herself from running her fingers through his raven curls while he had his hand on her ass, holding her flush against him. The longer their searing kiss lingered, the more Arya willed herself to fight her body’s urge to have him again. _We can’t. I want to, but we can’t. They will hear us._

When their lips finally parted, Arya took the moment to admire her brother. His violet eyes and raven hair had always gotten her attention for as long as she could remember. While her fingers traced his jawline, she wondered what he would look like if he let a beard grow. _He would look like my King. Brave and strong and handsome._

“What are you thinking?” Rhaegar broke the silence with a hand resting on her hip, occasionally caressing her skin.

“Do you remember when we were little and I would promise to be your Queen? I would sit on the Iron Throne with you and rule our little realm,” she answered, recalling distant memories that were etched in her mind. They were fond memories, ones that stuck and always stayed with her.

“I remember. We were just children,” Rhaegar replied, brushing away a loose strand of hair. Arya smiled at his gesture. He loved touching her hair and making sure it did not obstruct her face.

“I meant it. I always did. The first time I saw the throne, I knew we would share it. I knew you would be my King and I your Queen, because you love me. You always did, even when we were just children. Father and Mother would always anger me when they would shake their heads and laugh when I said I would be your Queen,” she confessed.

“They did not mean anything by it. We were just children,” Rhaegar replied.

“I know. I am just trying to say…I…I guess I don’t know what I am trying to say…,” Arya admitted, desperate to find the elegant words Senya or Nymeria would conjure. They were truer ladies than herself, more adept at finding romantic words that described how they felt about their loves.

“You love me,” Rhaegar finished her sentence. _He is right. It is simple, but that is what I feel. I suppose there is no need for better words._

“Aye,” she confirmed, reveling in the smile forming on his full lips that she loved to kiss and occasionally bite when she felt aggressive.

“I suppose neither of us have ever been poets,” Rhaegar jested as she decided to climb on top of him, settling her head on his hard chest. His muscles were strong and something about them made her feel strong. Arya never wanted to be protected like some helpless princess, but she secretly craved Rhaegar’s protection when it was just them.

“I don’t want you to leave. I want to stay like this,” Arya whispered against Rhaegar’s chest while his hands roamed her body. It was the feel of his fingers on the back of her thighs creeping toward her wet folds that tempted her to do something foolish. “We can’t.”

“We can,” he argued, slipping a finger into her cunt, causing her to moan. Arya felt like a puppet under his control as his finger made her gasp from its touch.

“No, we can’t,” Arya panted, pulling his hand from her cunt before it went too far and she succumbed to his skills. “I won’t be quiet, not with you. And as far as I can tell, there is no storm rolling in to cover my screams.”

“Well, if you will not let me make love to you, I guess I will just have to…,” Rhaegar said as a mischievous thought crossed his mind. _I can see it in his eyes. What is he planning?_ Before she could react, Arya found herself flung on her back with Rhaegar on top, hovering inches over her face.

“I said we can’t,” she protested, knowing he would give up. Arya knew he would never force himself on her. _I am lucky he was raised with honor and I was taught to defend myself. Other ladies aren’t so lucky._

“As my Princess commands,” Rhaegar replied before leaving a kiss on her lips. Just as his tongue traced her bottom lip and Arya wanted more, Rhaegar abandoned her mouth. His kisses slowly cut a path down her neck to both of her breasts and onto her stomach. _I should stop this. I should stop this._

Instead of listening to her mind, Arya folded against Rhaegar’s will and her heart. The touch of his lips on the skin just above her hair sent her over the edge, spreading her legs wide so he could have access to her cunt. Arya wanted to watch Rhaegar taste her cunt, but the pleasure of his tongue on her clit forced her head back into the pillows behind her.

“Oh…Rhaegar…,” Arya moaned, fisting his curls as his tongue abandoned her nub, gently easing around the edges of her folds. She wanted more and he gave her more, furiously lapping her folds. _Gods, he makes me so wet._

Arya was panting as Rhaegar feasted on her cunt like it was the last thing he would ever get to taste. She wished she could reciprocate his love, but her body was writhing under his efforts. While one hand kept Rhaegar in between her legs, the other fisted the sheets on her bed. The further he dove and the faster he went, the harder it became to stifle her moans and High Valyrian cries.

Every flick and every swirl of his tongue was felt through her body. Waves of pleasure coursed through her skin, sending her toward the inevitable. Time felt like it was slowing as she sobbed his name and her toes curled for the coming climax. Second by second, Arya did her best to keep quiet.

Arya tried to keep the silence, but her efforts were folly. She was cumming for Rhaegar and she had no control over herself. She wanted more and he gave her more, lapping up her juices until she had nothing more to give him. When the stars on the back of her eyelids began to fade and the ceiling of her bedchamber came back into view, Rhaegar was circling her clit again.

“Keep going my love…keep…,” her High Valyrian was failing her as she dug her heels into his back, ensuring there was no retreat. _He wouldn’t retreat. He loves my taste._

While Rhaegar continued to worship her cunt, Arya decided it was no longer enough. Not for her and not for him. She wanted more. _I don’t care, we are dragons. I don’t care if we are caught._ “Get inside me!”

“What?” Rhaegar asked, confused when she pulled him by his hair off her folds.

“I need you inside me,” she responded, pushing her hips forward, seeking his cock. “Rhaegar!”

Rhaegar heard the impatience and anger in her voice. Quickly, both his hand parted her thighs somehow further apart. He took several seconds to admire her glistening cunt before he took his length in hand and filled her to the hilt. The pain before was mostly gone, replaced by pleasure and lust. She felt like she had won some little war, even if he was wanting to fuck her minutes before.

“Arya, gods you are so tight for me,” Rhaegar said as he kneaded her breast as his thrusts began. He was slow and gentle, but eased his way towards a more pleasing pace. Arya tried her best to keep quiet, but felt like she was failing.

She wanted to scold Rhaegar when his hand abandoned her nipple until he surprised her. His fingers fell to her nub, overwhelming her senses. Her heart was beating out of her chest and they were both covered in a sheen of sweat like the night before. “Fuck…Rhaegar…oh fuck!”

Every thrust was harder and deeper, driving Arya mad for Rhaegar. She could feel her cunt clinching around his cock as she saw stars again, unable to concentrate on what they were doing. It did not matter. Rhaegar was in control and doing everything he could to make her cum.

“Arya! Gods…,” Rhaegar growled as his cock throbbed in her cunt, letting her know he was about to give her his seed. The sound of his hips and balls hitting her skin filled the room at a rhythmic pace until she saw him find his release. “Fuck, Arya!”

Arya loved him. Rhaegar’s thrusts became uncontrolled as he came for her. Each thrust grew more tired than the last until he fell into her arms, resting his head against her breasts. Both were exhausted, but it did not stop Rhaegar from trying to take his weight off her. _You are staying here._

Arya wrapped her arms around Rhaegar even tighter. She held him there, refusing to let him leave her. For whatever reason, she liked having Rhaegar in her arms after making love to her. It was his beating heart against her skin and the smell of their sex that made her keep him close.

“I thought we weren’t going to do this,” Rhaegar said. She could feel his breath hitting her nipple, reminding her how much she liked his mouth on them. Arya felt herself smirk, remembering the first time Rhaegar saw her breasts. _He looked like a Lannister who had discovered a mountain of gold._

“We weren’t, but then I changed my mind. You changed my mind,” Arya replied, running her hands through his hair before he inched forward to capture her lips.

“Arya, I didn’t mean to…,” Rhaegar started when their lips parted, but she was not going to let him apologize. She stopped him from going further with her fingers on his lips.

“I wanted to,” she said, staring up at his eyes dancing back and forth at her.

“So, what are we going to do now?” Rhaegar asked, cupping her cheek with his calloused hand.

“I don’t know, we cannot stay in here making love all day,” Arya responded. _Though it doesn’t sound so terrible._

“We could,” Rhaegar argued with a gentle thrust of his hips.

“Stop,” she said, laughing at his attempt to convince her of something foolish. Her laughter did not seem to dissuade his affections, only drawing him closer until he was sucking on her pulse. Forced to stop him and herself, Arya shoved him back with both hands on his chest, still laughing at his unusual compulsion to risk being found with her. “You’re incorrigible. Now go find your clothes and get out of my chambers before we are discovered.”

While Rhaegar looked for his clothes strewn across the floor, Arya moved to the window nearest her bed. It looked to be a perfect day. Vermithrex and Silverclaw were flying over the Blackwater, gracing the sky with their beauty and strength. Arya thought it was a great injustice that there were Targaryens who never saw a dragon fly. She mourned for her grandfather and uncle who died before they could see what her father and mother returned to the world.

“Will I see you in the training yard?” she heard Rhaegar ask over her shoulder, still dressing himself by the sound of it. When she turned around, Arya was disappointed to find him wearing his breeches and undershirt from the night before. His clothes still looked wet and unkept from the rainstorm she forced him to stand in.

“It is too late in the day,” Arya replied, feeling a tinge of guilt for missing their routine. Still naked as her first nameday, she crossed her chambers to give Rhaegar a kiss farewell before his attempt to sneak out of her chambers unseen and unheard. On the tips of her toes, she left a long kiss on his bruised lips, hoping she was reminding him of what he had to look forward to for the next night and all the nights after. “Find me at the stables.”

“The stables?” Rhaegar gave her a funny look.

“Nymeria and Aegon have something planned for us,” Arya replied, giving him another quick kiss before shoving him out of her chambers. It was ill-advised considering she did not look before doing so. Anyone could have been standing in the hallway, but when she peered outside her door, she found no one. Only Rhaegar and Frost walking back toward his room down the corridor. _If his wolf has been sitting outside this door all night, I will burn him alive._

When she closed her door, Arya found Snowstorm sitting on her hind legs with her tongue hanging out, asking for attention. Arya complied, running her hand through her direwolf’s white fur. _You would never do something so stupid._

“What do you think? Did Frost give us away?” she asked, receiving no answer from her direwolf. _I hope not._

The stableboys protested, but Arya persisted and readied her mare herself. Her mothers and the Dothraki taught her how to ride, but it was her Grandmother Lyanna who taught her how to care for her mount. It was from her, she learned the importance of connecting with the beasts and having a bond that could build some semblance of trust.

On Dragonstone, she brought her white mare from King’s Landing, gifted to her by her Grandmother Rhaella on her tenth nameday. The horse always approached when she came to the stables and Arya made sure to care for it whenever her family resided on Dragonstone. She was never sure if her mare was comfortable away from the stables of the Red Keep where it spent most of its life.

“So, what was it like?” Arya heard Dany approaching, interrupting her fond memories of riding through the Kingswood and along the banks of the Blackwater Rush.

“What was what like?” Arya responded, turning on her heels to find her sister in her usual black riding breeches with a red blouse with elegant dragons and the occasional wolf embroidered along the shoulders. Like herself, Dany preferred small references to their heritage in on their wardrobe.

“You know,” Dany said, hardly unable to contain her excitement. _What is she on about?_ Dany looked around the stable before continuing, “Your first time. How was it?”

“How did you know?” Arya demanded. _Rhaegar told Jon and Jon told Dany. Why did he do this? Did he really change after one night?_

“Neither of you were in the training yard to spar and you are glowing,” Dany replied, making her feel guilty for momentarily losing faith in Rhaegar. Arya then focused on Dany’s words, feeling unconvinced she leapt to such a conclusion by her own absence and her apparent glow. After giving her sister a skeptical look, Dany confessed, “Alright, I went to your room to find you last night and I heard…some things.”

“Oh…,” Arya let out, weighed down by her previous thoughts. She was so quick to blame Rhaegar, she did not consider what else could have given them away. _It was me. He will never let me hear the end of this._

“So, how was it?” Nymeria asked, approaching with Senya at her side. Both her sisters were prepared for the day in their usual riding attire. Arya felt a warm flush spread across her neck, embarrassed that her sisters knew of what she had done. Nymeria looked genuinely curious while Senya seemed indifferent.

“It was…I don’t know, it’s hard to explain. But I do know one thing, it was perfect,” Arya beamed, wishing there was something she could say. Her sisters had never even been pleasured before. _How could they begin to understand?_ “And it got better,” she continued, earning giggles from Dany and Nymeria.

“Better? He made love to you more than once?” Nymeria asked, eager to hear about her first time.

“We did it…many times,” Arya confessed, remembering the three times they made love at night and the one time this morning. Just thinking about Rhaegar in between her legs made her ache for him, even with the little pain that came with it.

“Many times? How many? I thought it hurt, that you couldn’t,” Dany asked with a furrowed brow. She looked confused but excited to hear of what Arya had done. Arya realized they had never talked about such things. She had told her sisters she had done things with Rhaegar, but never the specifics.

“It hurts at first, but it gets easier,” Arya responded, knowing that was true for herself. _Is it different for other ladies?_ “Have Aegon or Jon ever pleased you?”

“No,” Dany let out in a near whisper while Nymeria shook her head in embarrassment. Arya felt sorry for them. _There is no shame in waiting. Rhaegar and I did. Each of us are still young._

Before she could comfort their insecurity, Arya heard a small laugh escape Senya’s lips. Her head swiveled to find her sister readying a sable mare two stalls down. _Seven hells, Senya has done more than Nymeria and Dany!_

Arya was in shock as she watched Senya pull the mare by its reins from the stall, walking toward them with a sly grin on her face. She could not believe the proper princess and obedient one amongst them was the first to try things. _And with Eddard! I would have never guessed._

“What are you laughing at? It isn’t like you have done anything either,” Dany mistakenly accused Senya.

“You have!” Nymeria said, stunned by the revelation. Arya could not stop herself from chuckling, watching Nymeria hold her arm to Senya’s chest, preventing her from escaping this without details. “What have you done?”

“Everything,” Senya confessed after rolling her amethyst eyes. Arya thought her jaw was going to drop off her face until she saw Senya realize what she had said. “We have done everything except make love.”

“Why did you never tell us?” Nymeria asked, upset by their sister’s secret or that she had not even come close to being intimate with Aegon. Arya could not tell, but she felt a sense of guilt. _My actions have brought this on._

“Because I did not think it was your business and you are reacting how I thought you two would,” Senya answered with an annoyed look toward Nymeria and Dany. Arya thought Senya looked like their mother in that moment, disappointed and angered by something young children had said.

Arya watched Senya walk her sable mare out of the stables, into the yard, leaving her standing there with Dany and Nymeria. Both looked confused and even upset. She sensed her sisters felt left behind, unable to share the feeling of intimacy Arya and Senya had with Rhaegar and Eddard.

“Do not fret, when the time is right, things will happen as they should,” Arya tried to comfort her sisters. Both returned pained smiles, likely disagreeing with her sentiment. _What should I say? I never felt this pressure. It just happened with Rhaegar and I._

“What if they have talked? What if Aegon expects us to…,” Nymeria nearly stumbled over her owns words, looking completely lost. Arya did not like seeing Nymeria like this. Nymeria was always the confident and expressive sister, who did not care what the world thought. _I have never seen her like this. Neither of them._

“If he expects anything, then he does not deserve you,” Arya countered, pulling her sister in for an embrace. “Do what you feel is right. You love each other and that is all that matters. There is more to loving someone than sharing a bed. It is trusting them with all your secrets and dreams and fears. Love is about making each other smile and wanting to live for one another.”

As Arya eased her grasp on Nymeria, she stepped back and found Dany holding a confused look. “What? What is it?”

“You sound different? Who are you and what have you done with my sister?” Dany replied with a small laugh.

“Dany isn’t wrong. You never speak like this,” Nymeria affirmed Dany’s sentiment.

“I suppose I do sound like a lovesick maid, don’t I?” Arya responded, wondering what had made her feel this way. _Is this what happens after the first time? I have always loved Rhaegar. I do not love him anymore than I did a fortnight ago. That would be impossible._

“Better a lovesick maid than a miserable septa,” Dany jested, making each of them laugh. They laughed harder than they should have, but they grew up detesting ever septa they ever encountered. Arya remembered the countless times they would try to scare or prank the septas that could be found in the Red Keep. _Septa Tolayne wasn’t so terrible._

“What about septas?” Sarra Naath asked, sitting atop a brown Dornish stallion trotting into the stable. Sarra was the adopted daughter of Grey Worm and Missandei. Her natural mother had died when she was born and her father died fighting the dead outside the walls of Winterfell. She had no family left in the village she was born, several miles from Last Hearth. She was a dear friend and treated like a sister.

“Nothing, just a simple jest. Arya is in love,” Dany responded. Sarra only shook her head, already knowing of Arya’s relationship with Rhaegar. Sarra was also fifteen years of age and Arya did not hide things from her friend.

Arya thought Sarra to be a beautiful northern lady with smooth hair as black as night and eyes as blue as winter roses. She was thin, but her breasts and curves seemed pleasant enough, Arya wondered if Sarra had encountered many suitors. _She may be lowborn, but her father and mother sit on the Small Council. She is beautiful and will inherit more wealth than many of the highborns in the Seven Kingdoms._

“Baavo and Qhorro are waiting at the gate,” Sarra informed them before pulling on the reins of her stallion, riding off into the yard. Arya decided she could speak with her sisters later about the previous night. Swiftly and gracefully, Arya mounted her mare and settled comfortably into her saddle. Years around the Dothraki and lessons from her grandmother had taught her to rely on herself, unlike most ladies across the Realm.

“Well, are you coming?” Arya asked, halting her horse at the archway leading to the yard. Nymeria and Dany rushed to climb their horses, knowing she would make a race out of this. _They are fools if they think they will beat me._

Arya stood several feet from the edge of the cliff, keeping a watchful eye on Rhaegal and Viserion flying several miles from shore above three ships sailing westward along Dragonstone’s northern coast. She could not see if there were sigils on their sails, but she presumed they were simple fishermen or traders sailing for Duskendale, Rook’s Rest, or King’s Landing. _Do the sailors ever fear the dragons will attack? No, if they did, they would not anchor at Dragonstone._

Her brothers and several Dothraki boys of similar age led them from the Port of Dragonstone to the northern cliffs several miles from town. The terrain did not allow them to ride down to the small stretches of sand below, scattered about the hundred-foot cliffs, but the surrounding lands were good for riding. The Dothraki had come to know these lands well, still needing to ride their favored horses and keep their valued traditions. Arya had never seen the Dothraki Sea, but she guessed it made for far better ranging than the confines of Dragonstone.

“Staring at ships, are we? I’ll be sure to tell Father you want one for your next nameday,” Senya stated, coming to stand beside her in riding breeches and a sleeveless tunic of style usually found in Essos. Their mothers wore clothes of a similar fashion and Arya could not deny her preference for the style as well.

“You know I do not care for the ships,” Arya replied, glaring at her sister, silently telling her not to jest about such things. _Father would gift me a ship if he thought I truly wanted one. What purpose do I have for a ship? I have Rhaegal._

“If you wanted to fly, you should have said so. We could have left Nymeria and Aegon to riding the horses,” Senya suggested. Part of Arya wanted to agree with her sister. She preferred riding Rhaegal to riding horses on Dragonstone, but Nymeria asked them and she was not going to refuse her sister’s invite. “I haven’t flown Stormfyre in four days. She misses me, I can tell.”

“Sometimes, I just wish I could climb onto Rhaegal and fly away from it all,” Arya mused. _With Rhaegar on Viserion. I could never leave him behind._

“From Dragonstone?” Senya asked with a furrowed brow, reminding her of their mother.

“No, not Dragonstone. If I wanted to get away from here, I certainly picked the wrong brother to love,” Arya replied with a small laugh, knowing much of her life would be spent on Dragonstone. She would rule their ancestral home and all its attendant lands with Rhaegar. “No, I meant King’s Landing and court. All the lords and ladies scheming to take from us, one way or another. Sometimes I envy you.”

“Envy me? Why?” Senya asked with utter confusion wracking her beautiful face.

“You will be the Princess of Summerhall. You and Eddard will be able to raise a family full of children in peace and quiet,” Arya said, conjuring up a picture of her younger siblings’ future in her mind. Senya tried to pull back the smile spreading across her lips, doing her best not to acknowledge the truth in Arya’s words.

“Aye, but you can live a peaceful life here as well. Father will still be King and the lords of the Seven Kingdoms will still flock to King’s Landing. The lords of the Crownlands aren’t so terrible, are they?” Senya eased her worries. _No, but some are more loyal than others._

“You are right, it won’t be so bad,” Arya replied, glancing one last time at Rhaegal abandoning the sea. The green-scaled dragon was flying in their direction, likely to join Viserion who was flying overhead. “Gods, listen to me. I shouldn’t be complaining. There are far worse things than being a Princess of House Targaryen.”

“Mother and Father could send you to the Silent Sisters,” Senya jested. Arya laughed, knowing her parents would never tie her to such a cruel fate. Even as she laughed, Arya wondered what her life would be without her name and blood. _I would not have everything I love, Rhaegal, Snowstorm, Rhaegar, and our family. What is it like without castles, food, gold, and armies to protect you? I never want to know. I swear, my children will never know such a life._

“Arya! Senya!” their brothers called for them, readying the horses for the ride back to the Port of Dragonstone. Arya could see Eddard and Rhaegar already atop their horses, waiting for Senya and herself. Aegon and Nymeria were wrapped in each other’s arms as if they were never going to see each other again. Jon, Dany, Sarra, and their Dothraki companions were still gathering the food and blankets from the grass to place inside the saddlebags and sacks strewn across the horses.

“So, you and Eddard?” Arya asked as she walked back to the makeshift camp at Senya’s side. Her sister bristled with joy and what could only be described as true love when she merely mentioned their brother’s name. Arya turned her gaze to Eddard, noticing his lingering eyes tracking Senya’s approach. “Has he made you…?”

“Yes, yes he has,” Senya confirmed with a mischievous look about her. Her sister seemed to understand what she was going to ask before the words left her lips. _I still remember Elissa Qorgyle and Meria Vaith telling me girls had to fake it. I didn’t with Rhaegar._

“When did you first do…other things?” she asked, still wondering how she hadn’t noticed anything different about them before. Arya still wondered how it wasn’t obvious to everyone else when she and Rhaegar became intimate. _Gods, those days were marvelous and frightening._

She could still remember every moment of the first time she let him finger her and plunge his tongue into her folds. Rhaegar was nervous and inexperienced, but so was she. It was exciting when they snuck away for hours, pleasing one another. For several days, they disappeared and spent all their time finding what the other liked.

After, Arya feared every pair of eyes that met her own. It felt like everyone saw how she had changed and knew she was no longer an innocent maid, even if she had still not truly made love yet. _I couldn’t keep my eyes off Rhaegar and he could not keep his eyes off me. It was all we could think about._

“After our nameday feast,” Senya responded, smiling to herself, likely reliving every moment of her time with Eddard.

“I think you have made our sisters jealous,” Arya mused, knowing both were disappointed to find out Senya had done more than they had. Senya was always so careful and reserved with her affections with Eddard, Arya nor her sisters expected her to have been intimate.

“It isn’t meant to be a contest. I love Eddard and he loves me. I am not thinking of anything or anyone else when we are together,” Senya argued with frustration in her tone. Arya was glad to see some bits of anger inside her little sister. _She always plays the timid, perfect princess who endears herself with everyone. There is a dragon to be woken inside her._

“When has Dany ever not treated something as a contest?” Arya reminded Senya. Dany was the most competitive of their sisters and reveled in anything that could make her a victor. _Gods, she raged when she found out I entered the archer’s list at the last King’s Tourney. She will surely enter this year._

“She shouldn’t rush things,” Senya stated, reminding Arya of the advice she wanted to give her sister. Eddard and Rhaegar were slowly riding their way with the reins of their two mares in hand.

“I meant to tell you earlier, but it slipped my mind when I had the chance. Take your time with Eddard and do not let him push you to do anything you do not want to,” Arya warned her sister. _Eddard wouldn’t do that, but I need to tell her anyway._

“Did you regret last night?” Senya asked with a concerned hand on her arm, trying to sense if anything was amiss.

“No, of course not. I did not plan it, but it felt right in the moment,” Arya said, reliving her final moments as a maid along the ramparts of Dragonstone. She could still feel the cold rain beating on her face and soaking her clothes. Arya still felt Rhaegar’s warmth and protective arms around her. “It still feels right. I guess what I am trying to say is, let it be your decision when you make love to him. He will be ready when you are, trust me.”

“They’re whispering about us,” Rhaegar declared as he came to a halt on his black destrier in front of her. Arya carefully lifted her hand to pet the powerful beast that wasn’t so powerful compared to a dragon. When she finally pulled her hand from the destrier, Arya turned to her mare and lifted herself onto her saddle.

“Not everything is about you,” Arya lied, giving Senya a mischievous look as she tightened her grip on the reins, preparing for a strenuous ride back to the port. _He sees right through my lies. Everything is about him. He is all I can think about and I am all he can think about._

“Are you coming?” Aegon yelled as he rode with the rest of their band, leaving behind the ground they had rested upon.

“Aye!” Rhaegar yelled back to their brother. Before she could urge her mare forward, Arya felt Rhaegar’s hand on the back of her neck, pulling her in as he leaned forward to capture her lips. Her heart fluttered because he had never been so open with his affections, even amongst their siblings. Rhaegar waited for the Dothraki to ride off, but it wasn’t nothing. Not to her.

**Princess Daenerys Targaryen**

As their party carefully made their way through the cobbled streets of the town, Dany was reminded again why she preferred Dragonstone to King’s Landing. Unlike the capital, she could ride freely through the streets without an escort from her household guard. Her brothers and Dothraki companions were enough.

With every house and shop they passed, Dany and her siblings were greeted with warm smiles and the frequent cheers for House Targaryen. The smallfolk living on Dragonstone could be trusted more than most across the Realm, but that did not mean Dany was foolish enough to completely trust them. If someone were to try and harm her, she kept her sword on her hip and her direwolf close by.

It wasn’t just the people that stood in stark contrast to King’s Landing. The homes and buildings surrounding the port painted an entirely different picture. Few structures stood more than two stories and the shingles on the roofs were a dull grey, matching the weather-beaten cliffs of Dragonstone. The stones that made up the homes, inns, taverns, and shops were a dark grey while some were white.

What did remind her of King’s Landing and any other town in Westeros was the people’s wariness of the wolves. Dunk, her grey direwolf named after Ser Duncan the Tall, had found her just before they made it to the edge of town and now trotted alongside her mare. None of the fishermen, dockhands, mothers, or children they rode past dared come close to her companion. _If they fear you, what would they think of Vyraxes?_

Not long into their ride through the town, Dany saw Rhaegar and Qhorro leading them off the road that passed through the town and down the street that connected Dragons’ Square and the port. Dany expected a swift return to the castle and instead found herself following her eldest brother further into the town. A small growl from Dunk told Dany her loyal companion was not pleased with their diversion.

“Where are we going?” Dany asked her twin, riding alongside her on a black destrier.

“Sheepstealer’s Tavern,” Jon answered with a grin. The tavern, named for the dragon claimed by the -bastard girl named Nettles, was a decent-sized establishment that stood along the edge of the port. Dany could still remember the first time Jon dragged her from her room and snuck them away to drink ale at Sheepstealer’s Tavern. Aegon and Nymeria were the ones to instigate the adventure and Dany would never forget the fun they had there.

“Mayhaps you should avoid the stronger ales this time,” Dany jested, remembering how she had to support her brother when they returned from the tavern several moons ago. Dany was not angered, knowing she drank too much herself that night. She shook her head at the memory, relieved they had managed to avoid making a scene or causing some terrible incident when they were last there.

“Aye, if you say so,” Jon replied with a loving smile he saved for her. Dany accepted his promise with a simple nod before returning her gaze to the street ahead. _We were still just children then._

As much as she tried, Dany found herself staring a Jon again instead of what lay ahead. The longer she looked, the more she wanted to rip the tie holding his raven curls back and run her hands through it as she tasted him. She craved the feeling of his grey eyes piercing her own as his rough hands cupped her cheek and traced her flushed neck. _I want more. I want to see him. I want him to see me, all of me._

Just the thought of leading him into her bedchamber or sneaking into his made Dany wet for him. She wondered what it would be like for his fingers to pleasure her cunt instead of her own. _Maybe I will be lucky and he will use his tongue like some lords do. I do not want to wait until we are married._

All her life, she knew she would be wed to Jon. Her father never said anything, Dany could remember all the times her mother promised the wonderful life she would have with her brother. It used to anger her, making her feel like she did not have a choice for her future. But then she neared womanhood and realized desires she had never felt before.

For the past year, Jon was all she could think about. Whenever she wasn’t in the training yard practicing with her sword or bow, she was dreaming about Jon and the life they would share in their castle in the North. _Our children will grow up along the shores of Long Lake and fill the halls of Winterhall with their laughter. My sons will be strong like their father and I will teach my daughters how to be fierce princesses._

It was the sounds of seagulls flying overhead and men working at the nearby docks that tore Dany from her daydream. Rhaegar and Arya were already dismounting their horses in front of Sheepstealer’s tavern. Dany pulled on the reins of her mare and guided her mount toward Sarra Naath, who was tying off her horse near the inn that stood next to the tavern.

As Dany stopped alongside Sarra to her right and Jon came upon her left, she dismounted her silver mare. She kept her eyes on the windows of The Black Dragon, wondering if there were spies looking down upon them. The inn was a place for outsiders and Dany guessed Varys kept watchful eyes on the guests at all times.

“Are you coming?” Jon asked, grabbing ahold of her hand, leading her to turnaround into his embrace. His kiss turned from a gentle tease of her lower lip into an eager plunge, battling her tongue for supremacy. Dany refused to be the one to retreat, savoring his taste as she forgot to breathe.

“Ahem,” she heard, forcing Jon to pull away. Dany’s eyes left his full lips and found Senya to be the one to break them apart. _Damn her. Just because she is the one who likes to hide her affections doesn’t mean the rest of us need to._

“Don’t mind her,” Jon tried to cool her anger, noticing the scowl on her face. “And don’t lose that temper of yours.”

“Temper? I do not have a temper,” Dany replied. _Arya is the one with a temper._

“Forget I said anything,” Jon said as he always did when they were in conflict with one another. Dany let it go, deciding this was a foolish thing to ruin the day for. “Let’s see if they still have the Merman’s Ale.”

“I prefer the mountain ale,” Dany declared as they neared the door below the wooden sign hanging from a cast iron bar. The sign was painted with the mud brown dragon the tavern was named for. _I wonder what became of Nettles and Sheepstealer. Did they disappear into the mountains of the Vale or fly off to Essos?_

“Liar,” Jon accused her, giving a disbelieving look. She understood why he was skeptical of her, considering the ale from the mountain clans of the North was the strongest drink she had ever tasted.

“Liar?” she echoed as they walked into the tavern.

“Liar,” Jon confirmed with a grin, thinking he had caught her in a lie. _I’ll show you._

“Enjoy your southern wines Brother. I will have a true northern drink,” Dany teased him, knowing what her words did to him. Like their father, Jon detested the ways of the southern lords. She did not know if it was because he truly felt that way or he wanted to make their father proud. Jon worked tirelessly to perfect his swordsmanship while maintaining an infuriating aura of humility. _Even his clothes are almost entirely black, like Father._

Instead of arguing any further, Jon only gave her a light nudge with his elbow, making her giggle like a maid at his gesture. Dany returned his affection, leaning into his side with her arms wrapped firmly around his torso, cherishing the feel of his taut muscles underneath his leather gambeson. _He is mine._

“My Princes! My Princesses! You do me great honor visiting my tavern. House Targaryen is always welcome here,” Dany heard the owner of Sheepstealer’s Tavern. She could see the old man just over Rhaegar’s shoulder. When they first visited moons ago, Dany had heard the skinny old man had run the tavern since the days of the Mad King. _I wonder if our parents were ever patrons? Maybe even our grandfather?_

“You are too kind, my friend,” Arya replied before the man bent the knee, paying respect to their royalty. “Please, that isn’t necessary. Rise.”

“Thank you, your Grace. Ahh…,” the old man hesitated, seeing Arya’s direwolf brush past them to stand beside her sister. Dany could see the fear and apprehension on the man’s face before he quickly collected his wits.

“Oh, I am sorry. Do you mind if our direwolves come in? I promise they will not be of trouble,” Arya pleaded sweetly, with all her queenly charms. Dany was always amazed when her older sister found it within her to become the perfect princess and get whatever she wanted from those put under her spells.

“Yes, my Princess. Of course!” the tavern owner responded as soon as he could. Dany guessed Snowstorm was the first beast ever permitted entrance into the tavern. “You shall have our best Arbor gold.”

“Do you have any mountain ale?” Dany asked, not caring for wine she could get whenever she wanted.

“Mountain ale? Yes, yes we do,” the owner stammered, confused by her request.

“We’ll have two pints then,” Dany replied before looking up at Jon. _He still does not think I can drink it._

“The rest of us will have the Merman’s Ale,” Rhaegar said, not caring for the stronger northern drink.

“We would be honored to have your finest Arbor gold,” Senya spoke up, standing with Nymeria. Dany couldn’t help but roll her eyes at her sisters. Nymeria and Senya always acted like the proper southern princesses. _Is there any of the North in them?_

“Come on,” Dany said, tugging on Jon so he would follow her to the empty tables below the open windows looking out onto the harbor. Dany could see dockhands and sailors offloading crates of salt from a nearby cog that held the purple sails of Braavos. The cog was surrounded by galleys hailing from Lys and Volantis, judging by the color of their sails and the carved figures on their bows. _I want to return to Lys one day. It was the best part of Essos._

Almost as soon as Dany sat upon the bench with the open air rolling through and Jon sitting to her left, Dunk quietly took his place behind her on the floor. She suspected he was better off lying in the mud instead of the worn floor of a tavern, but she knew the direwolf would protest being sent away. _His sad eyes always get to me. It is a weakness of mine._

“They are still here,” Rhaegar observed, nodding toward the tall masts of the swan ships near the end of the docks for visiting ships. Rhaegar sat across from her along the window with Arya, Nymeria, Aegon, and Qhorro to his right.

Dany saw Sarra take the empty seat on the bench next to Jon with Senya and Eddard coming after her. Without the prying eyes of drunken sailors and curious smallfolk yet to fill the tavern, Dany rested her head on Jon’s shoulder. She felt tired and worn thin from a day full of sparring and riding.

After learning of her sister losing her maidenhead, Dany looked to Arya, expecting to find her exhausted from all of it. To her dismay, she found Arya glowing and completely lost in Rhaegar. She was happy for them, seeing they were not trying to hide their love. Arya wasn’t all over Rhaegar like Dany was with Jon, but her sister sat closer than usual to Rhaegar.

“A strong mountain ale for the prince and the princess!” the owner of the tavern surprised her with two pints placed before herself and Jon. A younger man, likely in his forties, placed another two pints in front of Rhaegar and Arya. If Dany had to guess, she would have said the man was the owner’s son. “And two pints of Merman’s Ale!”

Dany dropped her eyes to the dark ale sitting on the table before her. Carefully, she slid her fingers around the handle and lifted the pint to her lips. She could smell the strong ale before the cold touched her lips. It was bitter. More bitter than she remembered.

“Not as you remembered?” Jon smirked, reveling at the sight of her cheeks fighting away the initial disgust she felt for ale brewed by the reclusive mountain clans. _It is an acquired taste. I will get used to it as I did before._

“It is far better than I remember,” Dany lied, feigning a smile as she put the pint back on the table.

“Are you going to keep talking or drink your ale?” Aegon challenged Jon, even if they had just sat down.

“You like talking more than anyone here,” Jon rightly accused their brother as he lifted the pint, chugging more than he should to prove Aegon wrong. Her silver haired brother had a way of getting under her siblings’ skin without taking things too far.

Most of Dany’s brothers were like her father, quiet and brooding. Aegon was neither. He was loud and did not mind being the center of attention at court. Those who knew her uncle said her brother was just like his namesake. And just like his namesake, Aegon was inseparable from his brothers despite their different nature.

“You do,” Nymeria agreed, seeing Aegon’s incredulous face. _Can he be so thick?_

“Nymeria is right,” Sarra added before Aegon could protest.

“I see how it is,” Aegon said, drinking from his ale before continuing, “Everyone is against me. Do not come asking me to save any of you at the next feast in King’s Landing.”

“I’m not against you,” Qhorro offered in his heavily accented voice. Qhorro always favored Aegon’s company and invited him to ride with the Dothraki as he did this day.

“A true friend, you are,” Aegon declared, raising his pint toward Qhorro before both drank from their cups. Dany could only wonder what Qhorro or the Dothraki sitting at the other table drank. Her northern ale was strong, but the Dothraki drinks were something else entirely. _Not even Mother or Father drink from the same barrels and wineskins as the Dothraki._

“That’s because you do not have to treat with him every day of every year,” Eddard jested, earning laughs from them all. It wasn’t because what he said was so funny. Dany laughed because she rarely heard Eddard sound so carefree and the ale was starting to have its effect.

After the conversation at the end of their table turned to arguments over the proper weapons to use in combat and which battles were the greatest in history, Dany listened to Arya and Sarra recall memories of the North. It was something she realized she needed.

Dany remembered every castle and every holdfast they visited. The beauty of White Harbor was always something she would hold onto. Arya reminded her of the grand feast at Winterfell during the royal progress and the serenity of the godswood. Rhaegar recounted the warm greetings they received from House Cassel at the Dreadfort and memorable nights spent at Karhold where they snuck out of the castle.

While Arya spoke of the Wolfswood and the game it provided, Dany remembered the first time she laid eyes on the Wall. They never stayed at the castles for more than one night, but she would never forget the hospitality of the free folk. It went against everything the southerners said of the people who once lived beyond the Wall. _The few giants who remained south of the Wall were not monsters. They were kind, as long as you did not stare._

When the royal progress came to Castle Black, her mother made sure to show her where her father took command of the Night’s Watch during the battle against Mance Rayder. The world looked far different from atop the Wall, a feeling she only felt when riding Vyraxes. _Everything looks so small from the sky, yet the world looks so big._

It was at Castle Black, Dany decided she wanted to be the swordsman her Mother had become. Her mother’s tale of the battle in the night and saving her father’s life with Dark Sister inspired her to follow in her mother’s footsteps. Dany had always preferred fighting with wooden swords at Arya’s side, but it was there, in the shadow of the Wall that she knew she would not be a normal princess.

“Are you alright?” Jon whispered close to her ear, pulling her from the trance she did not realize she had fallen into. Dany laughed, remembering when they found an actual bear on Bear Island. The impressive beast charged herself and her siblings until her father stepped in its path. She would never forget the bear’s retreat upon hearing the roar of three dragons.

“Yes, I am fine,” Dany said, sipping the last of her second pint. Feeling brave, she slid her hand from the table down to Jon’s thigh. After taking a moment to appraise her surroundings and the eyes in the room, Dany inched her hand toward Jon’s crotch until she found his length.

“Dany…,” Jon stammered, surprised by her boldness. His shock and the ale she had consumed only encouraged her to tease him more. She did her best to keep a straight face while her fingers moved up and down his cock, feeling him grow harder with every stroke. _Gods, he feels so big._

“Dany, not here,” he warned her, pushing her hand away. She could hear it in his voice and see it in his eyes, her mischief was pleasing to him. _Not here. In my bedchamber, tonight._

“Not here,” she acquiesced, keeping her hands to herself while losing herself in his grey eyes staring back at her.

“You kissed Jaremy Thorne?” Arya sounded confused, drawing Dany’s attention to her sister’s conversation. She followed Arya’s eyes and found Sarra to be the accused.

“What? He is nice?” Sarra shrugged. Dany agreed Jaremy Thorne was nice, but he did not seem worthy of Sarra’s attention. _He isn’t ugly, but he is not handsome either. She can do far better._

“So that is where you were last night when we looked for you at the feast? Are you sure it wasn’t more than just kissing?” Jon jested, earning fists on both his shoulders, from herself and Sarra.

“No! And even if we were, what of it?” Sarra replied with piercing blue eyes that looked ready to destroy her brother.

“I am sorry, I did not mean it like that. Please forgive me,” Jon pleaded. Dany could hear the honesty in his voice and knew he was true. Sarra was like a sister to them and none of them would care if she took someone into her bed.

“I forgive you,” Sarra answered, returning a pint of ale to her lips. “As long as you bring me with you on the next hunt in the Kingswood. I think I should like to learn how to kill a stag.”

“Aye, I can do that,” Jon accepted. _She wants to learn how to use a bow now? How many times have Arya and I offered to teach her?_

The sound of laughter at the end of their table caught Dany’s ear, drawing her attention to Aegon and Eddard laughing while Nymeria and Senya rolled their eyes. It filled her with joy to be surrounded by her closest siblings, but she could not ignore the fact that things would not always be this way. Each of them would be wed and living at their own castle in the years to come. Rhaegar and Arya on Dragonstone. Eddard and Senya at Summerhall. Aegon and Nymeria along the Sunset Sea. Herself and Jon would live at Winterhall at Long Lake.

She wasn’t sure it would work, but Dany tried to wash away the sliver of sadness creeping into her mind with what remained of the bitter mountain ale. Her drink did nothing to her dismay, but Jon’s comforting hand pulling on her hip did. It was what she needed and what she wanted.

“I heard an interesting rumor…,” Sarra offered, causing their end of the table to wait in silence for her piece of information. _A rumor from her parents or some lordling or lady visiting Dragonstone?_ “There may be a royal progress in Essos after the King’s Tourney. Lys, Volantis, the Bay of Dragons, Qarth…”

“Where did you hear such nonsense?” Rhaegar asked, confirming it was just that, a rumor. If there was any consideration for a royal progress to the eastern part of the Realm, Dany knew her eldest brother would know. He was present at all meetings of the Small Council and her father was always including him on decisions that would help prepare him for the time he would wear the crown.

“A few of the maids speak louder than they think,” Sarra answered.

“You should know better than to listen to them. I am sure they heard our mothers wishing to return to Lys or telling stories from the Bay of Dragons,” Arya said.

“I have already spoken with Father about this several moons ago. There won’t be a royal progress through Essos until our youngest brothers and sisters are wed. The next progress will either be through the Riverlands, the Reach, or Dorne,” Rhaegar declared, putting any speculation to rest. _He is right, unless of course our mothers change their minds and tell Father what will be done._

“That’s too bad, I have never been across the Narrow Sea,” Sarra replied with a soft sadness. Dany knew it was not a tragedy for Sarra, but she sensed there was a part of Sarra that truly wished to visit Essos.

“Lys and Pentos were nice,” Arya replied, sipping on her ale before continuing, “As was the Great Pyramid in Meereen. As I remember, the rest wasn’t so great.”

“Mother said there is nothing like our manse in Qarth,” Dany said, recalling her mother’s stories and descriptions of the city near the Jade Sea. _Green terraces, cool fountains, lush gardens, and decadent halls. She always loved telling me everything about Qarth._

“I suppose we will return one day,” Rhaegar let it slip, looking toward Arya before he realized his mistake and tried to act as if he did not say it. Dany looked around, but failed to see any outsiders who did not know of their relationship who might hear. 

_Will Jon and I ever return to Essos? Likely not. That is okay. The North is all I need. Jon and our children will be all I need. Sons with his raven curls and daughters with his grey eyes._

Dany glanced over her shoulder, making sure the household guard protecting them did not follow too closely. After leaving Sheepstealer’s Tavern, Jon walked with her along the docks. Dunk kept close as their protection, but the guards who protected the port insisted they needed an escort. She relented, knowing they were right and she did not want any of the men to face her father should he find out they strolled through the harbor unprotected.

The guards maintained a respectful distance and Dany leaned into Jon’s side with her arm still entangled with his. She told everyone she loved sparring and riding a dragon more than anything, and she believed that once. Now she could not say that was the truth. She loved anything that was shared with Jon.

As they walked along the stone path with the docks to her left and a row of houses to her right, Dany saw men leaving their work behind to return to their waiting families. A few cheers from the smallfolk and two or three people getting their names right brought a smile to her face. She was used to being confused with Arya or Senya. It was often enough she was confused with her little sisters, Naerys, Sansa, and Daenys.

“What is this about?” Jon grumbled as she twisted her head, looking past her brother to see two Myrmen approaching from the deck of their galley. One of the men had a Myrish rug in hand while another carried a sheathed sword.

“My Princess! We have the finest Myrish rugs. You would do us a great honor to place one in the Red Keep,” the man holding nothing came forward, standing at the bow of his ship. She guessed he was their captain. 

“Off with you! The Prince and Princess are not here to…,” the captain of the guards shadowing them came forward, giving each of the Myrmen a threatening look.

“It’s quite alright,” Dany waved the captain away. She returned her gaze to the sailors and their goods they wished to sell. She was tempted, but knew better than to purchase anything from men who had anchored at Dragonstone. She did not know who they were or who held their allegiance. “I am afraid the great magisters of Myr have already filled the Red Keep with Myrish rugs. I do wish you good fortune and safe seas on your passage.”

“A Volantene sword for the Prince?” the man holding the sword asked with a heavy accent.

“I already have a sword,” Jon replied, putting his hand on the pommel of the sword on his hip.

Dany decided it was for the best they move along and pulled on Jon’s arm to leave the Myrish ship behind. Ten Braavosi galleys were tied up to the docks they walked past with shades of orange and pink painting the sky. The sailors above deck were either tying up their sails or bringing crates filled with unknown goods aboard.

“Do you remember the Arsenal?” Jon asked, referring to the great shipyard of Braavos that could build a ship in one day. _Simple ships with little comforts._

“I am afraid not. It was so long ago. I remember the manse in Lys and our rooms in Pentos, but not much else,” Dany confessed as they passed the last Braavosi ship and came upon two long ships be readied to sail.

As she suspected, the men loading the longships and unfurling the grey sails were Ironborn. The sailors’ clothing was ragged and their faces more so. Each of them looked unpleasant and unwelcoming to anyone that did not pray to their drowned god.

The first of the Ironborn to look their way was a boy close to their age. Instead of the smiles she was used to seeing as a Princess of House Targaryen, Dany received a cold stare that she interpreted as hostile. The Ironborn was disgusted by the very sight of her and her brother.

Not one of the Ironborn approached them or said a word. If they had, Dany guessed their words would be vulgar and laced with hate toward her family. Her grandfather had crushed Balon Greyjoy’s rebellion and killed thousands of men that called the Iron Islands home. The Siege of Pyke was a story her mother told her since she was a child and it was always one of her favorites. It was only when she grew older that she learned the dragons, direwolves, lions, and krakens were men.

If the failed rebellion was not enough to earn their scorn, she knew her parents’ victory at the Battle of the Gullet won the Ironborn’s hatred. Thousands perished in the flames and those that escaped their burning longships drowned in the cold waters of Blackwater Bay. Lady Yara Greyjoy had kept the peace since the war, but there were always stories of rogue captains leading their longships on raiding parties across the seas.

“They hate us,” Dany said when the longships were behind them.

“Remember what grandmother said, ugly shit-stained rocks for ugly people,” Jon laughed, echoing their Grandmother Lyanna’s sentiment. _Are the Iron Islands truly uglier than the rest of the Seven Kingdoms or does everyone say so because of the people that live there?_

“I remember. I also remember Father saying they are part of the Realm and deserve our protection,” Dany replied, disagreeing with her father’s forgiving nature. She did not trust the Ironborn considering their history of treachery and their distasteful ways. _Reaving and raping? Saltwives?_ “If they ever rebel again, I will fly Vyraxes to their pathetic islands and give them fire and blood.”

“Calm down, my love,” Jon said as they stopped at the end of the docks, pulling her around so she could look upon his face.

“Calm down? I am calm. I am just promising you that they will not live to reave and rape if they think of opposing our family’s rule again,” Dany swore, feeling herself angered by the thought of lords breaking their vows. She lost an uncle, a grandfather, and two great uncles because of disloyal lords and ladies. _At least we won’t have to worry about a traitorous Targaryen. None of our brothers or sisters are like that._

Jon began to laugh and it confused her, causing her to furrow her brow as she wondered what he was thinking. “What? What did I say?”

“Gods, you are my fiery dragon,” Jon huskily said, seizing her braided hair before he pulled her into his kiss. This was what she wanted. Dany loved when Jon asserted himself and forced himself on her in a welcome way. _He is always the dutiful, quiet Prince, but not with me._

With every brush of his tongue against her own and every bite on his lips, she savored the moment. Dany did not care who saw or what they thought. _We came into this world together, two dragons made for one another. We are meant to be together._

“I love you Daenerys,” Jon whispered when they broke apart. Her brow was still resting against his and she could feel his breath hitting her bruised lips.

“And I love you,” she wore, squeezing his arms as if she needed to convince him anymore. “Come to my chambers tonight.”

“Why? Is something wrong?” Jon asked with concern in his voice. _Gods, you can be such a fool. My fool._

“No, quite the opposite. I want you…,” Dany paused, looking behind to make sure their guards were not close enough to hear. Dunk was the only one who could hear what she had to say and her direwolf would not be telling anyone her secrets. “I want you to see me.”

“I do see you,” Jon argued, not understanding her.

“No, I know that. I…I want you to see all of me. I want you to feel all of me,” Dany said, inching closer so even her direwolf could not hear. “I want your fingers between my legs. And I want to feel your hard cock in my hands. I want to…” _I want your cock in my mouth and your tongue licking my cunt._

Dany stopped as she felt his heart beating out of his chest with her hand resting on his gambeson. She wanted to say more, but was afraid Jon could not take anymore. He was nervous and excited. Dany felt the same, but she had been thinking of her plan all day. _Arya is no longer a maid. Gods, even Senya has done things with Eddard. We are now the prudes._

“Are…Are you sure?” Jon asked. She wasn’t sure if he was afraid of making a mistake when they retired to her chambers or whether he truly thought there was a bit of doubt in her mind.

“I am sure. Are you?” Dany asked, hoping there was not a hint of worry in her voice. _I want this. Please Jon, I want this._

“Aye, I do not want you to think we have to because…,” Jon said before she cut him off.

“I am not thinking of anyone else. This is about us,” Dany answered, looking for the answer she wanted underneath his grey eyes. All she saw were the grey eyes she admired. _Perhaps I am a fool or Mother is wrong. I cannot see anything in someone’s eyes._

“Then I will find you in your chambers tonight,” Jon promised, pulling her in for another kiss. This one was nervous and unsteady. It reminded her of the first time they had kissed. _Seven hells, I hope I did not put too much pressure on him. I should have just pulled him away later and told him nothing._

“Just be careful. Everyone will be at the beach tonight. Our absence will be noticed. We must wait until later,” Dany warned Jon, hoping she wasn’t adding to the great weight he put on his own shoulders.

“I will be careful, I promise,” Jon vowed, resting a hand on her neck as his thumb traced her skin. “I will not fail you, never you.”

**Queen Daenerys Targaryen**

Daenerys looked out onto the black surface of the sea as the tide came in, inches from the tips of her toes. There was nothing to be seen but the full moon illuminating the surface of Blackwater Bay and the stars painting the sky above Dragonstone. The sand felt as cool and relaxing as the breeze rolling in with the breaking waves that filled the air with the sound of their crashing. It felt good to be back at her family’s ancestral home.

When Daenerys set foot on the very sand she stood to reclaim Westeros and the Iron Throne, she only carried memories of her childhood on Dragonstone. Ten years later, she now held the memories of her children growing up on the island that was so very dear to her heart. Whenever she looked upon the opening to the dragonglass caves or the great stairs leading from the castle to the beach, she thought of her children as much as she did her own childhood.

Memories of Senya and Naerys running through the rising tides, Rhaegar and Eddard finding the cave paintings from the Children of the Forest, and Daeron and Rhaella racing down the stairs warmed her heart. Daenerys only wished there was more time for them to spend on Dragonstone or Summerhall. King’s Landing did not allow her the time she wished to see them grow and enjoy the bonds they shared with their siblings.

On Dragonstone, Daenerys almost had the entirety of every day to spend with the children. During the months they spent in the Red Keep, she did her best to steal away time for them. As a Queen of the Seven Kingdoms with real power, she had a duty to the people, her House, and herself to see to her queenly duties. That meant Small Council meetings, hours in the Throne Room listening to petitioners, and conversations with lords and ladies filled her days.

It was only when she was away from the capital, either at Dragonstone or Summerhall, or even a royal progress, that Daenerys felt like an ordinary mother with nearly all her time devoted to her children or husband. Daenerys would always understand the importance of her duties as a member of House Targaryen, but love was always more important to her than duty. Love gave her Jon and her children. Love gave her everything that mattered in her life, not duty.

Daenerys only hoped her children felt the same. Some of her children were born as dutiful and stubborn as Jon. She prayed they would find another dragon to love instead of a lordling or lady seeking greater power. To her relief, Rhaegar found his love in Arya, in spite of his persistence in learning to become a wise ruler. Part of her feared he would wed for an alliance, something many advisors would urge.

In this instance, Daenerys did not care for her advisors’ council or the conventional wisdom. Her eldest were dragonriders and the youngest would have dragons of their own one day. She would do anything she could to stop another family from acquiring a dragon. _Our children are dragons. They are meant to be with other dragons._

“It is a beautiful night,” Daenerys heard Visenya’s voice before she stood to her left. The sounds of the waves and their children’s laughs masked her approach.

“Yes, it is,” Daenerys agreed, looking upon the full moon. She was reminded of a night in the Dothraki Sea when Doreah told her of the tale of a thousand dragons coming from the moon. _A silly story for the smallfolk. Dragons did not come from the moon._

“They are still hiding it,” Visenya observed with an amused laugh. Compelled to see for herself, Daenerys glanced over her shoulder, spotting Rhaegar sitting near the fire with Robb and Maekar telling him something about their day. Arya sat around the other fire with her arms around Vaella and Alysanne, likely teaching them how to get into some mischievous act.

Just as Daenerys was about to avert her eyes, she caught her eldest give each other the look that confirmed what she had always suspected. They loved each other and could barely hide it from the world. She first noticed moons ago, lost in her thoughts during a family supper in Maegor’s Holdfast. She was reminiscing the times she shared hidden moments with Jon around a table filled with family. While doing so, her memories unfolded before her, only it was her son and daughter.

“They think they are hiding it,” Daenerys replied, giving Visenya a knowing look before both laughed at her children’s fruitless efforts. _I do not understand why they hide it. Their brothers and sisters do not._

“At least they are not hiding their feelings from each other,” Visenya said, reminding Daenerys of the years her niece and best friend spent keeping her feelings for Jon to herself. _How did I never see it? Rhaenys did._

“I do not think Arya would ever keep her feelings to herself,” Daenerys paused, looking back at her eldest daughter. It was like looking in a mirror, seeing herself with little sisters she never had. Arya inherited all her looks except for the storm grey eyes that Daenerys fell in love with. “She gets what she wants.”

“Like her mother,” Visenya followed with a smirk. _Like me?_

“I think you mistake me for Rhaenys,” Daenerys argued, shaking her head at such notions. Arya learned to get anything she wanted from her father and most anyone at court for that matter. Her daughter reminded Daenerys of Rhaenys all those years ago. _Only Arya is much wilder and more preferential to the activities of a prince, like her namesake._

“No, there is no mistaking it. Arya may wield a sword and best the greatest archers in the Realm, but she is her mother’s daughter. You wanted our husband. You stopped him from doing something foolish and joining the Night’s Watch. You had all the children you ever dreamed of and brought dragons back into this world. It was you who pushed to burn the khals and free the Bay of Dragons. And Arya wants to be Rhaegar’s wife and queen. She will get what she wants,” Visenya said. Daenerys tried to find an untruth in her words, but failed.

“I suppose she has inherited my stubbornness,” Daenerys mused, never before considering how alike her eldest was to herself. “And do not tell Jon I said that. He is our stubborn fool.”

“Of course,” Visenya agreed with a bright smile before they both let out their laughter. As long as she could remember, they reminded their husband how stubborn he was even when they knew he was not nearly as stubborn as themselves.

Daenerys wanted to ask Visenya about what Lady Massey had pulled her aside for earlier in the day, but was distracted by the cheers and encouragement given by their children for her little raven-haired twins, Rhaenys and Lyanna. Both of her daughters had gentle hearts, even for princesses eleven years of age.

Lyanna was a sweet girl, who always carried a bright smile and filled the halls with her spirited laughter. Daenerys sensed Lya, as she is often referred to by her family, would never acquire an interest for politics or swords. Lya loved to watch the mummers’ shows in King’s Landing and loved to dance and sing more than anything else. With all the joy and happiness Lya carried with her, Daenerys feared for her daughter.

Daenerys still hated the memory of her daughter being tormented by a girl from House Florent two years before. She could remember finding Lya crying, believing the Florent girl’s whispers that she was not a Targaryen because she had grey eyes and raven hair. It took her a night and the morning after to calm her innocent daughter, with Rhae’s help.

Princess Rhaenys was just as fond of songs and dances as her twin, but showed far more independence and resilience to the opinions of others. Rhae, as she preferred to be called, was always at Lya’s side. They were inseparable and difficult to tell apart for many. Daenerys could always tell one from the other without having to distinguish them by their contrasting eye color. Daenerys could see both of her twins would look just like herself, only with their father’s raven hair.

As always, Lya and Rhae embraced the cheers and stood in between the two bonfires. Both girls spoke no words, only looking at one another, before they broke out into song. Daenerys never liked to sing, but she did sing for her children when they were little and loved hearing them sing as they grew older. Rhae and Lya were truly talented singers that made her proud. And as Daenerys expected, her girls sang their favorite song, Two Hearts That Beat as One.

“Lyarra looks like she rather be anywhere else,” Visenya noted. Daenerys searched for the little princess who disliked anything that did not involve swords, dragons, or horseback riding. She finally caught Lyarra sitting between Ashara and Viserra. While Ash and Viserra were entirely consumed by their sisters’ singing, Lyarra sat by the fire, shaking her head.

“At least she has Jaehaerys,” Daenerys replied, carefully following Jaehaerys’ trek toward his twin sister. Both shared a close bond that could never be broken. They were two halves of one whole, but could not look more different. Jaehaerys inherited the classical Valyrian traits of House Targaryen, while Daenerys expected Lyarra to grow into a beautiful princess with the Stark features.

“She told me she wants to join the Kingsguard when she is old enough…,” Visenya sighed as they watched Jaehaerys put his arm around Lyarra as they huddled around the fire, ignoring their siblings. Daenerys was glad to see Lyarra smile after her brother whispered something in her ear.

“If she thinks Jon would ever allow that, she is mistaken,” Daenerys said, knowing their daughters could get anything they wanted from their father except that. _Jon would never allow our daughters to serve and risk their lives to protect him. He would die for them. He did die for them and would do so again._ Daenerys continued, “I remember when she was little and asked if she could be a member of the Night’s Watch. All those stories about Uncle Aemon and her Uncle Benjen.”

“I never had the heart to tell her the Watch is gone,” Visenya laughed. They told their children many stories about the Night’s Watch and its heroic deeds. Daenerys and Visenya never spoke of its end or its final days at Castle Black and Winterfell. Their children were little at the time and they decided to save the darker days and deeds of the Watch for when they were older.

The Night’s Watch was gone, but its castles were still standing and refortified. Each of the nineteen castles were now manned and controlled by a lord, many former wildlings, a few by former brothers. Castle Black was repaired and, in some cases, rebuilt. A former brother and bastard of House Flint, Joros Snow, assumed lordship of Castle Black to be ruled under the newly formed House Black.

The Shadow Tower and Eastwatch by the Sea fell back into the hands of former rangers of the Night’s Watch. Most of the remaining castles were given to the leaders of the free folk clans that remained south of the Wall. Each were selected by Robb Stark with Jon and Visenya’s blessing. Daenerys did not bother to interfere, trusting Jon and Visenya’s knowledge of the free folk.

“She is meant for greater things. They all are,” Daenerys replied, returning her gaze to the crashing waves of Blackwater Bay. _Our children are meant to rule the Realm, build great castles, and fly dragons._

“Hopefully one of our sons show her duty is nothing compared to love,” Visenya wished with a sadness in her voice. Lyarra was only eleven years of age, but she was headstrong and solely focused on the things she enjoyed. _I pray for the same. If there is anyone for her, it is Jaehaerys. He is the one she confides in and he is the one that listens to her._

“They all can’t wed each other,” Jon surprised her, snaking his arm around her stomach as he whispered against her ear. Daenerys could not resist her need for him, even if she wanted, sinking into his protective arms. _They can’t? We’ll see about that._

“Where have you been?” Daenerys let out with a whimper after Jon kneaded her breast for the briefest of seconds while no one could see as they faced the ocean. She loved the little bits of mischief they tried to conjure as rulers of the Seven Kingdoms. The constant presence of their Kingsguard did not allow for much. More often than not, they had to go to their dragons to escape their protectors and truly have time to themselves outside their bedchambers.

“Instructing the Tyroshi captains on the matters of these trade disputes,” Jon answered before Visenya stepped in. Daenerys could hear their gentle kiss as Jon pulled Visenya into their embrace.

Daenerys turned on her heels to steal his full lips for herself, but found Lya and Rhae running across the sand in their white summer dresses. Both brushed past Snow and Silver to crash into Jon, wrapping him up in their arms. Behind them, she could see Rhaenys joining the children with Shadow and Ghost at her side.

“Father, come on, we have a new song. You must listen,” Lya pleaded, pulling on Jon’s doublet. Jon looked to her, asking for any excuse to stay, but Daenerys knew he truly wanted to make their princesses happy. She gave him the eyes that told him to go with the children and listen to their sweet singing.

“Go,” Visenya urged him to be gone. Jon followed her order, allowing their daughters to lead him toward the fires. Daenerys beamed with pride, watching her girls giggle, telling their father about whatever song they had planned to sing.

Noticing another person approaching, Daenerys turned to find Missandei leaving Grey Worm’s side to join them. Grey Worm continued toward the fires to find Sarra. Like herself and Visenya, Missandei wore a comfortable dress for the warm summer weather found in the Crownlands. Missandei’s dress was a light blue that matched the waters of Lys and were cut in a fashion that complimented her breasts.

“How did it go, my friend?” Daenerys asked, wanting her loyal advisor’s honest opinion on the matter. They did not anticipate a rebellion or even bits of violence in Tyrosh, but Daenerys was as determined as Jon to end any troubles before more problems spread.

“They will bring your orders to the admiral. His Grace let them know what was expected and how the magisters should be dealt with,” Missandei said, standing with herself and Visenya.

“The captains, did they understand the importance of this remaining a secret?” Daenerys asked, knowing they needed to be careful. The admirals and captains of their Essosi fleets worked with the councils ruling in the name of House Targaryen, but it was the Crown they ultimately answered to. _Is their allegiance to us or the men that can fill their coffers with bribery and thievery?_

“Varys said they could be trusted,” Missandei replied. Daenerys already knew this. The Master of Whispers had told her one of the captains was his spy while the other two were known to his little birds. Varys had never failed them yet and Daenerys knew once the orders had been delivered to Terro Valaris, the problems in Tyrosh would end. The admiral of the Tyroshi fleet had proven himself in the years after they took the city and they trusted he would carry out their orders.

“What do you think? Is it greed or a plot to take Tyrosh? Or something more?” Visenya asked for Missandei’s opinion.

“Greed, your Grace. The magisters have seen your dragons. It was over ten years ago, but one never forgets seeing dragons laying siege to a city,” Missandei reminded her of the Battle of Tyrosh. The fortress city fell fast and easy. Many others faced worst during their conquest of Essos.

“Nevertheless, we should be careful. Some men have short memories and even more covet power,” Daenerys cautioned them and herself. She had learned there were many men stupid enough to think they could stand against the strength of House Targaryen. _They are dead now, all of them. Fools._

She prayed the day would never come, but Daenerys was prepared for any opposition to their rule. If it came to it, they would fly their dragons across the Narrow Sea to bring fire and blood to their enemies. Her knowledge of Valyrian history taught her how important it was to crush any rebellions to dissuade others from stealing parts of their kingdom. _Should the magisters continue with these taxes and Admiral Valaris fails, I will remind them what Drogon can do._

“And what of Myr? Any news?” Visenya asked.

“I am afraid not,” Missandei replied. Daenerys mind raced with everything she knew of their Myrish and Tyroshi magisters. She remembered the men who were honest, the ones who were intelligent, the ones who were cowardly, and the two or three who thought themselves smart enough to deceive the Iron Throne. _Are the Myrish and Tyroshi working together or is it coincidence?_

Daenerys thought longer on the trade disputes in Myr and Tyrosh before concluding there likely was not an elaborate plot behind a few magisters’ actions. Like Jon, she wanted to stay apprised of their representatives in Essos, but she did not burden herself with the stress like he sometimes did. This was a small matter and they had dealt with small matters before.

In the ten years after their conquest, peace reigned across Essos for the most part. Qhono led part of their khalasar in a small war against sellsword companies in the Disputed Lands and along the Rhoyne upon their return to Essos. The war was short and decisive, with only two large battles and a few small skirmishes. Five years later, Kovarro led eighty thousand riders to defeat two armies from the east before word could reach King’s Landing.

Pentos was so close to King’s Landing, they had little trouble ruling the city with the assistance of Illyrio Mopatis’ unsavory politics. Lorath remained a silent and mysterious city, but Daenerys was happy for it. The Lorathi obeyed their laws and paid their taxes without any whispers of treachery. Braavos was another matter entirely.

The city founded by escaped slaves in the days of the Valyrian Freehold still held contempt for House Targaryen and the idea of being ruled by dragonriders. For the most part, the smallfolk grew accustomed to the state of things, but the rich were still plotting against them. It took three years after the conquest for Varys’ spies to find the last of the families who held an interest in the Iron Bank. Their Master of Whispers saw to it their enemies were silently disposed of without stirring conflict within the city. The poor were oblivious, but the wealthy knew very well what happened. Some were harboring their friends from the Iron Bank and Varys saw to their assassinations as well.

Tyrosh and Myr brought them little trouble until now, while Lys and Volantis embraced the rule of House Targaryen entirely. House Maegyr eliminated what remained of the old families that opposed them and managed to build an economy in Volantis that prospered without the practice of slavery. The Maegyrs accomplished this in a shorter amount of time with far less resistance than Daenerys encountered in the Bay of Dragons, but she knew they had advantages House Targaryen did not. Volantis was their home, they knew its people and customs, and the wealthy who would oppose them were slaughtered during the sacking of the city. _We should have slain more when we first took Meereen._

Like Volantis, Lys brought House Targaryen tremendous wealth. Volantis had the advantage of its large population while Lys had its place on the Summer Sea, prospering from its position along the trade routes. The Lyseni were quick to accept their rule and bend the knee to House Targaryen. It was unpleasant business, but Daenerys remembered ordering the execution of the right people in Lys when they took the city. Even with the love of the smallfolk of Lys, Daenerys expected some trouble in the years after, but the Lyseni surprised her. Not once were they forced to send ships, assassins, envoys, or dragons to the city. As long as trade continued and certain norms were allowed, Lys would never cause them troubles.

Qarth was much the same as Lys, only it had the responsibility of protecting the farthest edges of the kingdom and maintaining control of the Jade Gates. _If the Qartheen ever rebel, it will be war. It is too far away for us to stop anything before it happens._

While neither city posed a threat or showed any signs of opposition, Daenerys kept watchful eyes in Norvos and Qohor for entirely different reasons. Lord Sivero, Lady Mellario, and the rest of Arianne Martell’s kin kept to their word and ruled the city along the Noyne in their name. Daenerys trusted them and Arianne Martell, but she knew trust could fade with future generations. She had instructed Varys to have his birds spy on Sivero’s sons while Visenya and herself would keep an eye of Nymella Martell. _Perhaps we should invite her to stay in King’s Landing after the tourney._

Far more worrisome than the Norvoshi were the Qohorik. The city was officially ruled by a council, but Daenerys knew better. Lady Kinvara and the followers of R’hllor helped them take the city. They could easily take it back. Whenever Qohor filled her thoughts, Daenerys tried to construct a plan to eliminate their problem, but she had none that did not include fire and bloodshed. They had replaced one ruling faith with another, but they would have to live with that as long as the red priests obeyed their laws.

As her thoughts lingered on the politics and economy of Essos, Daenerys dwelled on the Bay of Dragons. The former slave cities brought them the most trouble and strongest resistance, in part due to their reluctance to rule through violence. She almost died in the Great Pit of Daznak and nearly lost her children in the Great Pyramid, memories she wished to forget. But Meereen was also the city she learned to become a mother and a queen. In spite of all the bad, Daenerys smiled, remembering her eldest grow from small babes to little children running around their pyramid.

In the years since their return to Westeros, the Bay of Dragons and New Ghis remained at peace. Only two dozen of the noble families remained across all the cities and they were a shadow of their former selves, led by boys and old women with little wealth left to them. Many amongst the lowborn who were never slaves still hated the freedmen and spoke up against Targaryen rule. Daenerys did not like it, but she tolerated Daario Naharis’ less than subtle ways of dealing with their enemies.

Once every two moons, a messenger from the Second Sons or Stormcrows would sail to Westeros to inform them of the events in the Bay of Dragons. Jon disliked the sellswords’ tactics, but she knew he learned to accept it after their battles with the Sons of the Harpy. Daario’s ruthlessness and cruelty towards their enemies was a price Jon accepted. _Should we ever forget the Great Masters’ evil, Grey Worm and Missandei are here to remind us._

“Missandei, why did you never return?” Daenerys asked her friend, thinking back to the day Missandei entered their service. She was nothing but a slave and a translator. _She could have taken a ship and gone to Naath. She still can. She could rule Naath if she so wished._

“Return, your Grace?” Missandei responded with a furrowed brow, not understanding what she was asking.

“To Naath. You could have left us years ago. You risked your life to serve us. You could have returned home. You still can,” Daenerys explained.

“The day you freed the Unsullied and freed the slaves of Astapor, that is why I stayed. You didn’t just win the loyalty of the Unsullied that day. You won my loyalty as well. We did not follow you because of your blood, your titles, or even the dragons. You are the Queens we chose, because we believe in you,” Missandei answered, looking to herself and Visenya before glancing toward the fires.

“We believe in Jon and Rhaenys as well. You have made a better world, one without slavery and injustice. How could I not follow you?” Missandei posed the question, taking Daenerys aback. She wanted to say something, but was left speechless, asking herself if her friend was right. _I hope she is right. I hope we are seen as liberators and not conquerors, but I expect it will be the latter._

“But home is still home,” Visenya spoke in a soft tone, almost unheard with the sounds of the waves crashing before them and laughter behind them.

“Naath isn’t my home anymore. Grey Worm and Sarra are my home. You told me once home was family. My family is here,” Missandei responded, nodding toward her husband and daughter sitting amongst the children around the fire.

“We are your family too,” Daenerys declared, grabbing Missandei’s hand with a gentle squeeze. “You are a loyal friend. You do not have our blood, but you are like a sister to us. House Targaryen will never forget what you have done for us.”

“Thank you, Daenerys, Visenya,” Missandei returned with a smile and without their proper titles. Daenerys smirked, knowing years ago Missandei would have insisted on referring to them by their queenly titles. In private, Missandei spoke to them as if they were sisters and not Queens of the Seven Kingdoms and Essos.

Distracted by the absence of her daughters’ singing, Daenerys turned around to the sound of laughs and giggles. Rhae and Lya had fallen into their father’s trap, wrapped up in his arms as they sat by the fire. Daenerys dreamed every night could be like this one, surrounded by family on Dragonstone, away from the confines of the Red Keep.

Everyone was happy and together. Lyanna Stark and Elia were whispering something to Robb and Maekar. Both were ten years of age, but showed promise in the training yard according to Jon. _Lyanna is likely telling them tales of Northmen fighting in the snow while Elia recounts stories of Dornish wars across the Red Mountains._

Sitting opposite her good sisters, her mother sat with Torrhen and Allyria, likely promising them gifts for their next nameday. Her mother was worse than Jon. He only spoiled their daughters while her mother spoiled them all. Daenerys never argued with her mother on the matter, guessing this was what grandparents were supposed to do. All she had was her mother, Rhaegar, Elia, and Lyanna when she was a child. She was just happy her children had more family than she did.

Watching from afar, Daenerys eventually caught Jon’s eyes. Silently, he was telling her to abandon the rising tide of the sea at her feet and join their family around the fires. Daenerys did not need any convincing and crossed the soft sands to sit with her loved ones.

Visenya and Missandei walked with her, but both broke off toward the fire to her right. Missandei joined Grey Worm and Sarra, who were surrounded by the eldest of their children and a few younger ones listening to her mother. Visenya snuck behind Brandon and Sansa, who were less than pleased by their mother’s affection.

When Daenerys reached the fire to her left, she wanted to sit with Jon and fall into his arms to watch the fire die out. Any hopes of spending the night like that were thwarted by the princesses who had their father wrapped around their fingers. _Nothing has changed in all these years._

In her search for an empty space around the fire, Daenerys came upon Daeron and Maelor. Realizing she needed to move quickly before one of the direwolves took her place or her sons noticed her approach, Daenerys hurried her steps. She managed to surprise both princes, settling on the sand between them.

As Jon continued to torment their girls with tickles across the flames, Daenerys ruffled Daeron and Maelor’s hair before leaving a peck on both of their temples. Maelor was born from Rhaenys’ womb, but Daenerys still loved him as much as she did any of the children born to her. She only hoped each of their sons and daughters born to Visenya and Rhaenys knew that. _I love them with all my heart. They are my children. I would die for them._

“Ugh…Mother!” Daeron complained, pulling his silver curls away as she tried to ruffle his hair again after leaving a kiss. She knew her youngest boy would make her proud one day. Everyone said he would make a great swordsman when he is older and he possessed a competitive nature that would help him in the training yard.

Daenerys had great faith in Daeron, but she also saw the temper he inherited from her. It was only settled by his twin’s presence. Rhaella had a settling effect on him. She was a sweet girl who was always there to cheer Daeron on and always followed him around despite having no interest in swords or fighting.

“What? Is there something wrong with a mother showing how much she loves her son?” she asked, causing Maelor to laugh. Maelor was unlike most of his siblings. He was quite independent, like his twin sister Elia, and spurned group activities. He once swore he would claim a dragon one day and fly across the world, exploring all of Essos. Daenerys remembered laughing, but prayed on the inside it was just the dreams of a small boy that would come to nothing.

“Look, your brother does not complain,” Daenerys added, hugging Maelor closer as Rhaenys let out laugh, sitting on his other side. When she returned her gaze to Daeron, his head was shaking in disgust or disagreement or both. “I heard you won a great victory today. The Bywater boy?”

“Jason. He wasn’t very good,” Daeron diminished his own abilities. Daenerys hated how he always compared himself to his older brothers. It was a trait that could make him great and push him to never relent with his training, but she worried for the weight it put on his shoulders. Daenerys worried for all their sons. They would be compared to their father for the rest of their lives, whether they liked it or not.

“He was good,” Jon spoke up, holding Rhae and Lya on his sides. “Not everyone is as good as your brothers.” _Not all boys are taught by the Kingsguard and the King who prevented the Long Night._

“Well, did you at least make friends?” Daenerys asked, looking down at her son as he stared into the fire.

“Why? They will be gone in a fortnight?” Daeron answered with a perplexed look on his face.

“Family is the most important thing in this world, but one must also have friends,” Daenerys tried to teach her son. She gently reached for his chin and turned his head to face her with his amethyst eyes. “Try to make some friends with the boys. Promise me?”

“I promise,” Daeron gave a less than enthused and unconvincing answer.

“Your father made many friends from the Houses across the Crownlands,” she added, knowing it was just the push Daeron needed. Her son tried to keep a calm face, but she could see the flicker in his eyes. Daeron adored his father and Daenerys would use that to her advantage as a mother every chance she could get.

“It’s true,” Rhaenys lent validity to her words, forcing Daeron to bend to their will. Daenerys knew this needed to be done, not only for Daeron’s wellbeing, but also for the good of House Targaryen. The Houses of the Crownlands were currently on Dragonstone because of their loyalty and commitment to the Crown. That loyalty and commitment was forged not just by fire and blood, but by close relationships built over generations.

“He will make friends, I promise Mother,” Rhaella swore, leaning forward with her silver mane woven into a complex braid by one of their handmaidens.

“Thank you,” Daenerys replied, trusting her daughter to ensure her twin would make nice with the little lordlings staying on Dragonstone.

“If you take us on Drogon tomorrow,” Rhaella added with a greedy grin on her face that wielded great influence over her father. _There it is, there is the price. My sweet little princess._

“Rhaella…,” Daenerys started, but held her tongue as Jon leaned forward.

“I will take you up on the dragons if your mother is too busy,” Jon offered, likely seeing her displeasure regarding their daughter’s manipulation. Daenerys did not care about bringing Rhaella with her on Drogon. She cared that Rhaella tried use her influence over Daeron to get something she wanted.

“Thank you, Father!” Rhaella said before standing up to run around the fire and crash into Jon with a strong hug. Daenerys was just thankful Rhaella avoided the fire, saving her dress. Like Arya at her age, she sometimes found Rhaella a little too fascinated with the flames for her liking. Once, she ran into a fire to prove to her sisters that they were dragons, burning away all her clothes. Ignoring her eagerness to prove fire could not hurt her, Rhaella was an easy daughter to raise and an even sweeter princess to the Realm.

While the three little princesses required Jon’s attention, Daenerys held Daeron and Maelor close to her side. She tried to think of anything that brought her more joy than being surrounded by family, but failed. Not even flying made her this happy.

As Maelor started to fall asleep against her right side, Daenerys laid a kiss upon his raven hair before she spotted Arya walking in the direction of the stairs leading back to the castle. Arya looked to be clutching her stomach, showing signs of sickness from their supper. _Does the roasted boar not agree with her or is this a mummer’s farce?_

Daenerys’ eyes carefully followed Arya, who still wore her riding breeches from earlier in the day. Senya had told her they rode into the town and past the northern cliffs. _Did Arya and Rhaegar slip away from the riding party? That’s what I would have done._

Another half hour passed as Lya and Rhae sung them more songs. It didn’t take long for Viserra and Ashara to join their sisters in their songs and dance around the fire. Their sons were not so entertained by the scene, but Daenerys was happy they held their tongues. _Your sisters do not always enjoy your arguments over swordplay and great warriors fighting the famous battles of old._

As Viserra began to describe a ruby necklace she saw another girl wearing the previous night at the feast in the Great Hall, Daenerys heard her children behind her at the other fire. Farewells were being offered to one of their children retiring for the night. Guessing it was Senya, her well-behaved and timid princess, Daenerys paid it no mind.

“Rhaegar, are you leaving us?” Rhaenys pulled Daenerys out of her near slumber. She realized her eyes were growing heavy with her sleeping sons in her arms. She tilted her head to find Rhaegar with a calm look on his face. _Too calm._

“It has been a long day and I wish to be ready on the morrow. Ser Arthur wants to instruct me with two blades tomorrow,” Rhaegar answered convincingly. _It seems his time at court and the Small Council meetings have taught my son well. We all know you were absent in the training yard this morning._

“Go on Rhaegar, I will be waiting for you with Arthur on the morrow,” Jon dismissed their son. Daenerys intently followed his steps as he slowly faded into the darkness toward the stones stairs that climbed the cliffs. Just before he disappeared into the night, she saw his steps turn into a hurried rush. Seconds after, Rhaegar sprinted toward the castle. _That is my son and daughter._

Bristling with pride, Daenerys met Jon’s glare. He understood as well as she did what was going on. They did not know their children’s reasons for the sneaking around, but she was happy for them. _Hopefully it will not be too long before they announce a betrothal and can end this nonsense. I would have done anything to let the Realm know Jon was mine before the King’s Tourney._

“What? I can’t help it,” Daenerys replied to Jon’s raised eyebrow. She turned to Rhaenys for support. Rhaenys looked just as pleased as herself.

“I envy them. The sneaking around made it even better, did it not?” Rhaenys said, forcing Jon to shake his head in defeat. He could not disagree. Neither could Daenerys. _How many times did we sneak into each other’s room? The times we ran off at Summerhall, along the lakeshore and our favorite lagoon with the waterfall. And there was the time in the Kingswood._

“Help what?” Viserra asked, sitting next to Rhaenys with a confused look on her face. “I’m confused.”

“Nothing, Viserra. Nothing…,” Jon lied before Daenerys could.

She decided not to say anything more, afraid one of the little ones would somehow figure out what they were talking about. There was no need for that. It would not be long before they returned to their chambers and could speak more about Rhaegar and Arya.

Carefully watching the flames before her, Daenerys contemplated her family’s future and turned her head to the princes and princesses behind her. She caught Jon and Dany in a short kiss while Aegon and Nymeria sat close to one another as usual. _Arya and Rhaegar are matched. Hopefully our sons and daughters are meant for one another. A dragon is meant for a dragon._

**Lady Allyria Tyrell**

From the terrace that opened out from her solar, Allyria could look out onto all the lands surrounding Highgarden. She could see the forests, fields, and hills surrounding her home for miles while the birds sung in the gardens below. It took her a few years to learn this new land, but she now knew the woodlands, streams, and farms just as well as the lands surrounding King’s Landing, Dragonstone, and Summerhall. Whenever she had the chance, she forced Willas to show her where it was best to go riding.

Allyria’s hands rested against the balustrades as she looked down to find her son, Arthur, training with her husband and Uncle Benjen. She thought her eldest looked more and more like his father every day, with the exception of his black hair. And like his father, Arthur was becoming a good swordsman, especially for a boy of twelve years.

Willas did not always have the time to train their son, but her Uncle Benjen was there every morning in the training yard. Some days, like this day, Allyria could find them training on the small patch of grass within the groves below their terrace. Allyria kept her eyes focused on her son’s technique, knowing his strength would come later. She knew it was important for him to learn the proper fighting stance and tactics.

While her husband parried their son’s attack with the practice swords, Allyria looked to her youngest boy standing next to her uncle as he shouted instructions. Rodrik was a curious boy and a quick learner, but he was only six and too young to receive any meaningful training. That did not stop Allyria from teaching Rodrik how to become a proper rider and take care of the Dornish pony gifted to him by her cousin, Edric Dayne.

Before she pulled her eyes away from Rodrik, he turned his head and looked up at her with his charming little smile. Allyria guessed he looked just like his father at that age, with his blue eyes and chestnut hair. She waved him on to turn around and pay attention to his father and great uncle. _He is young but he can learn many things now. Jon and Egg were trying to become knights at his age._

“He is falling for it again,” her nine-year-old daughter, Serena, observed. Serena, like her sister, inherited her black hair and violet eyes. Allyria saw little of Willas in Serena, except for her fairer complexion.

“Aye,” Allyria agreed, somewhat surprised Serena understood the trap Willas was laying for Arthur. Her daughter cared little for sparring and archery. She kept more ladylike interests. Allyria did not care. She was just glad her daughter was a happy child and shared her love for horseback riding.

When Willas knocked their son to the ground with a practice sword resting along Arthur’s neck, Allyria turned her gaze to her right to see if Elys was in the nearby godswood. A lush garden with all sorts of bushes, trees, and colorful flowers separated her boys from the peaceful escape provided by the Highgarden godswood.

Sitting before the three weirwood trees in a green dress with bits of golden flower, Allyria saw Elys praying with Winter at her side. Unlike Serena, her eldest daughter was far more adventurous and tried her hand at swordplay and archery. Allyria guessed Elys was partially influenced by her Targaryen cousins who were not averse to joining their brothers in the training yard. Elys worshipped her older cousins, especially Arya and Dany. Princess Elia and Princess Rhaella were her closest friends, despite the months that separated their meetings.

After some time, her daughter finished her prayers to the old gods and Allyria’s white-grey direwolf followed her daughter through the gardens. Elys was still not as good as her brother with a sword, but she was his match with a bow, despite being two years younger than Arthur.

“She is going to ruin her dress,” Serena sounded so concerned for Elys’ dress, Allyria would have been forgiven if she thought it was her own.

“It is just a dress,” Allyria countered, unconcerned if Elys ruined her green dress. She had ruined plenty before. _What is one more?_

Serena huffed, refusing to hide her disagreement as they watched Elys join her brothers. Instead of picking up one of the spare practice swords lying on the ground, her daughter simply observed Arthur’s training with her fingers running through Winter’s fur.

“Did you say something to her?” Allyria asked, even if she thought Elys would not listen to her little sister.

“Elys never listens to me,” Serena pouted, resting her chin on her hands across the balustrade.

“She listens to you more than you think, Serena,” Allyria heard her mother’s voice behind her. She turned to find her mother approaching in a dark purple Dornish dress that matched their eyes. Allyria thought her mother could still be called one of the most beautiful ladies in the Seven Kingdoms.

“No, she doesn’t,” Serena disagreed as Allyria’s mother hugged the little girl.

“I will speak to her. You two must get along. You are sisters and you will need each other,” Allyria said, knowing she could always rely on Rhaenys, Daenerys, or Visenya when she was Serena’s age. “But you must also make an effort. Elys isn’t going to like everything you like and you aren’t going to like everything she does.”

“I know, Mother,” Serena sighed, returning her gaze to the gardens and grove below.

“A raven from King’s Landing?” her mother asked, referring to the raven scroll Allyria forgot was in her hand.

“Dragonstone,” Allyria replied, tearing her eyes from Willas showing Arthur how to strike an opponent. “Serena, go join your brothers and sisters. I will be right behind you.”

Serena complied as she always did, scurrying off into the solar behind them. Allyria waited for her daughter to be gone and scanned their surroundings to ensure no maids were close enough to listen.

“What did it say?” her mother asked.

“They are concerned about the Hightowers and the Starry Sept,” Allyria replied, handing her mother the raven scroll handed to her by their maester this morning. Allyria carefully inspected the scroll before reading it, looking for signs of a broken seal. There was none, but that did not necessarily mean the maester or another spy had not read it first.

“Are you going to tell Willas?” her mother asked because Lady Alerie was a Hightower and spent most of her time in Oldtown. _She makes little effort to ingratiate herself within our House. She does not even like being called Lady Tyrell._

“I will. I trust him. He loves his mother, but he cannot stand Leyton,” Allyria informed her mother, not bothering to mention the history between her husband and Lord Leyton. The old man always tried to undermine her husband at every turn and always referred to him as a boy. _My husband has seen more battles than that old cunt._

“What will you do?”

“We have eyes in Oldtown. Willas has not trusted the Faith or the High Septon since they argued we should be wed in the Starry Sept,” Allyria answered. _I will never forget their comments about my children and their worship of the old gods. I hope they are foolish enough to start a war. We will tear down their precious sept once and for all._

“Just be careful. You know their influence across the Reach,” her mother reminded her. The Faith had many followers and a powerful ally in House Hightower, but Allyria had the support of House Targaryen and dragons. The smallfolk were not as devout as they liked to claim and Allyria suspected few would fight for the side that stood against twelve dragons and the rest of the Realm.

Allyria always knew a war with the Faith could arise. Their power was dwindling under Jon’s rule. The people of the Seven Kingdoms were not adopting the faith of the old gods or following the lord of light, but the Faith of the Seven no longer enjoyed former laws favorable to them. The Faith was now taxed just like everyone else and septons who supported small bands of militants met the King’s justice. Allyria also suspected the Faith hated Jon and what he stood for. He was returned to life by a red priestess and that shook many people’s faith in the Seven.

“We will be careful and smart,” Allyria promised. _This isn’t the first time I have had to put the Hightowers in their place. And it won’t be the last._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not very happy with the Daenerys POV. I believe I could have done better. And I wanted to continue writing the Allyria POV, but the chapter needed to come to an end.
> 
> Please leave any comments, questions, reviews, etc. below.
> 
> Allyria & Willas' children:  
> Arthur Tyrell (302) 12yr - blue eyes, black hair, looks like Willas except for his hair.  
> Elys Tyrell (304) 10yr – violet eyes, black hair, looks like Allyria  
> Serena Tyrell (305) 9yr – violet eyes, black hair, looks like Allyria & Elys except she has fairer complexion  
> Rodrik Tyrell (308) 6yr – blue eyes, chestnut hair, inherited Willas' looks


	3. Stags & a Wolf

**Prince Eddard Targaryen**

Eddard had hoped to find Senya waiting for him upon his return. She had decided to follow her sisters north, flying toward Crackclaw Point and Dyre Den on Stormfyre. He chose to follow Rhaegar toward Driftmark, past the Gullet, and around Stonedance. It was a familiar journey Sonar knew all too well.

Sonar was quick and graceful, always rewarding him with thrilling flights over the Blackwater and Crownlands. She was an easy dragon to approach, taking to him quickly when he first dared to claim his dragon. For as long as he could remember, Eddard knew the bronze-scaled dragon would be his. Whenever his parents brought him to the dragons’ lair, it was always Sonar who came to him, wishing to be pet on her massive snout.

After House Massey graciously received them at their castle, Rhaegar led Eddard, Aegon, and Jon back to Dragonstone. He expected an uneventful return, but Eddard was instead surprised by the sight of a ship sailing north toward his family’s ancestral home. Normally, he paid the ships on the Blackwater no mind as long as Sonar flew high in the sky or the ships hailed from a loyal House. But it was the gold sails painted with a black stag that caught his eye.

Rhaegar recognized the sigil as soon as he did and Sonar followed Viserion toward the slow-moving galley. Eddard was glad they flew their dragons as far as they did because they had crossed paths with his Aunt Arya Baratheon. He saw his little aunt at the bow of the ship with his younger cousins, pointing at them as they circled the ship.

His dragon brought him close enough to see his eldest Baratheon cousin, Orys, standing with his mother. Eddard liked his cousin, but the nine-year-old lordling was not old enough to befriend himself. Orys was closest to Eddard’s youngest brothers, preferring their company at court.

When they circled the ship, Eddard saw his uncle, Gendry Baratheon, emerge with Argella and Steffon. Both children rushed to join their mother, waving and cheering as the dragons roared around them. They lingered as long as they could to make their cousins happy, but Rhaegar eventually pulled away and he followed.

As Eddard passed through the guarded gate of Dragonstone, he looked for his sister on the ramparts, near the stables, and around the training yard. He saw Stormfyre with the rest of their dragons, but did not see Senya. She was not enjoying the view of the sea from walls as she liked to do nor did he find her encouraging their younger siblings while they trained with the sword.

It was a beautiful day without a cloud in the sky. Eddard knew he would find her outside. She preferred the sunlight and fresh air to the confines of a castle. He cursed himself for not looking for her in the godswood the moment he set foot into the court yard. _She always prefers the godswood. It is where she finds peace and quiet._

Eddard meant to pay the training yard no mind as he passed, but he did stop for a moment to watch his brother Aemon sparring with Brandon and Valarr. He was never surprised to find Brandon or Valarr in the yard. Brandon preferred the spear while Valarr was already an excellent swordsman, especially for his age. Eddard stopped because Aemon so rarely took part in the sparring matches.

Aemon was naturally gifted, but he did not show much interest. Eddard’s younger brother preferred the books in their library and Naerys preferred Aemon. Where Aemon went, Naerys went. And little to Eddard’s surprise, he found Naerys carefully watching Aemon’s every move. The sight made him feel sorry for his younger sister. _She fears he will leave her for the Citadel._

They were still young, but Eddard did not think Naerys was wrong to worry. No one seemed to truly know Aemon’s wishes or aspirations. Eddard once questioned Aemon after Senya insisted, but Aemon danced around his interrogation, avoiding giving any real answers. _He should do his duty and take Naerys. She is sweet, kind, and beautiful. Is he blind?_

Deciding it was a fool’s errand to get inside his brother’s head, Eddard continued on to the godswood. It wasn’t the Winterfell godswood, but his grandmother’s creation was far greater than many of the godswoods found south of the Neck. It lacked a weirwood, but its maples, oaks, elms, and pines were pleasant enough. When he reached the unguarded stone archway that served as the entrance to the godswood, he was reminded of how many other trees could be found inside that he did not know. 

Seconds after he set foot inside the tranquil retreat, Eddard found Autumn waiting for him. His sister’s direwolf was nearly as silent as Ghost and served as a pleasant protector of his sister. Eddard wondered where his own wolf was, but knew he could find him later.

Following Autumn, Eddard grabbed a blooming winter rose for his sister. The grey direwolf led him deep into the godswood until they reached the far end, near the castle walls. He saw his sister lying in the grass in a simple grey dress that never revealed too much. His other sisters preferred Essosi dresses, to his brothers’ delight. But Senya was different and he did not care.

Senya seemed to hear his approach and turned her amethyst eyes from the green branches above to his direction. He returned her smile as he hurried past the direwolf to join her on the smooth patch of grass underneath the tree. Before she could say a word, he tucked the winter rose above her ear with the stem planted within her beautiful silver braid.

“What was that for?” she asked with a furrowed brow and a small laugh on her lips as she laid beneath him.

“Nothing. I just thought it you would look beautiful with it,” Eddard stated, tucking away a loose strand of hair from her face. “No, you are already beautiful.”

“As are you,” she replied.

“I don’t want to hear that,” he protested. _No man or boy wants to hear he is beautiful. Ladies and princesses are beautiful._

“Sorry, you are my handsome prince,” Senya replied. Her smile was enough for him to decide he could no longer be parted from her inviting, full lips. He was quick to attack her, but he took his time, patiently tasting her while his hands roamed her body hidden from him beneath her dress. When they finished their kiss, she continued, “My Prince of Summerhall.”

“Did you treat with Lord Brune?” Eddard asked after kissing a bit longer.

“We did not visit Dyre Den. You know I can only tolerate them so much,” Senya admitted. He knew she did not care for Hanna Brune, or her sister Genna. Both meant well and were kind, but they were eager to please and felt overbearing. Eddard knew if they were too much for Senya, his other sisters would find little patience for the Brunes’ company. “Stonedance?” 

“Lord Massey is a good host. We ate well and sparred with his grandsons,” Eddard answered. House Massey was a loyal ally and Eddard found them far more trustworthy than most. _They were one of the first to raise their banners for Father._

“I should have gone with you,” Senya huffed, as he slid his fingers from her silver hair to her chest. Whenever they were alone, he found himself tempted to rip off her dresses and worship every part of her body. Ever since their nameday celebration, he could not get her breasts or cunt out of his mind. When her hand met his, he halted his pursuit, never wishing to do more than she wished.

“You would have seen our aunt,” he muttered, thinking of what they could do with no one in the godswood, except for themselves.

“What?” Senya interrupted his vulgar thoughts.

“Aunt Arya will be here before nightfall,” Eddard replied. Arya Stark wasn’t technically their aunt, but Eddard and his siblings considered her one nonetheless.

“Father and Mother did not say anything. Where did you hear this?” Senya asked with suspicious eyes.

“Because I think they meant it to be a surprise. We saw their ship on the Blackwater,” Eddard replied.

“They?” Senya questioned him with a hopeful voice. He knew she was eager to see their little cousins again. Senya preferred Argella, or Ella as she was called by family. Ella was just a small girl, seven years of age, and looked up to Senya.

“All of them. I even saw Nymeria on their ship,” Eddard answered. His aunt’s direwolf was wilder than the rest of the pack and her pups, now grown, were even fiercer. Eddard always kept his distance from the wolves whenever they encountered them in the Kingswood or at Storm’s End. He had grown up with direwolves his entire life, but Nymeria and Lady’s pack had lived in the wild for years. His aunts were the only ones who could walk amongst them without any trepidation.

“How long has it been? Four moons? Since our nameday? More?” Senya pondered. Their aunt and uncle were to rule Storm’s End one day, but more than half their time was spent in the Red Keep. While Lord Stannis Baratheon ruled the Stormlands, Gendry Baratheon occupied the empty seat on the Small Council. Eddard learned from the times his father frequently included himself on the Small Council meetings, Gendry served as an advisor more than the Master of War. That role was saved for Stannis and Stannis alone. Eddard knew Gendry was a capable battle commander and a proven warrior, but there were others more worthy of leading the armies of the Realm in the King’s name.

“Five,” Eddard answered with a smirk on his lips. The mere mention of their nameday had his mind filled with terrible thoughts. He wanted to have Senya right where they laid, in the middle of the godswood, for anyone to see. _Our direwolves would warn us, would they not?_

“What is that look?” Senya demanded with narrowed eyes.

“What look?” Eddard defended, trying to keep a face as still as the dragons and basilisks carved into the corridor walls of Dragonstone.

“That look,” Senya replied, pursing her lips. “I know that look. You are thinking about our nameday and what happened after.”

“Aye,” he confessed as he slid his hand up her skirt. Eddard started just below her knee, gently caressing her smooth leg. With great care, he moved up her thigh, loving the way he already made Senya writhe beneath him.

Inch by inch, Eddard’s fingers trailed upward until he found his sister already wet for him. If her soaking cunt was not enough to drive him mad with lust, the fact she did not wear any smallclothes beneath her skirt did. To the world and even to their family, Senya was an innocent maid. She dressed far more conservatively than their sisters and always seemed prudish when certain conversations arose.

It was the night of their fourteenth nameday, Eddard learned his twin sister was no septa. She led him to her room after the feast. He suspected nothing of it at the time, and shortly thereafter, found himself grateful for her initiative. It was the first time he saw Senya as naked as her first nameday in years and he would never forget it. There was little of that night he would forget.

Just like their first time, Senya was beautiful and wet for him as her legs parted for him before closing in around his arm again. In contrast to his first time, his hands did not tremble like those of a green boy. Instead, they were steady and sure, tracing the edges of her folds, teasing her. He took his time, coaxing her into eventual submission before finding her nub.

“We shouldn’t…not here…,” Senya whimpered. She was coming undone for him, but Eddard was always respectful of her decisions, even if he wanted more. While he slowly withdrew his hand, he felt Senya’s nails digging into his scalp, pulling him into her lips. She said one thing, but she wanted another.

While their lips collided, greedily tasting one another, Eddard slid one finger into her cunt while his thumb circled her clit. Over and over, he did his best to torment her with pleasure while his lips tried to keep the silence in the godswood.

With every moan and soft cry stifled with his mouth, Eddard felt himself getting hard for Senya. They had only been doing this for a few months, but it did not stop him from dreaming for more. He wanted to be inside her. Eddard wanted to know what it felt like to bury his cock into his sister’s tight cunt. Her mouth and her hands were more than enough, but he shamefully wanted more. _When the time comes, she will let me know._

After slipping another finger into Senya’s cunt, Eddard abandoned her bruised lips to leave a trail of kisses on her chest. With his free hand, he pulled on the silk fabric of her dress, attempting to free a breast. He struggled for a few moments, but eventually worked it out without becoming angered with his sister’s dressmakers. Once her breast was free, his mouth latched onto it like he had been deprived of it for moons. It had only been two days since he last had her breasts in his mouth.

“Oh…Eddard…we should…,” Senya moaned as his fingers continued to please her while his teeth grazed her nipple. Again, he was ready to withdraw, only to be pulled back into her grasp. “Right there…don’t stop.”

Just as she taught him how she liked it, Eddard saw to her needs. He knew Senya loved the way his tongue and lips worshipped her perfect breasts, but his focus was almost entirely on her clit and wet cunt. He began to quicken his fingers just as much as Senya’s breath quickened.

Unsatisfied with the pleasure he had given her, Eddard abandoned Senya’s breast and dove his head underneath her skirt. She smelled of want and beauty. She was perfect for him. _My Valyrian goddess and princess._

The moment his tongue parted her wet lips, Eddard could hear Senya’s nonsensical High Valyrian words fill the godswood around them. If someone were to come near, they were sure to be discovered, but he did not care. Her pleas for more and the squeeze of her thighs around his head only encouraged him to lap up her juices until she had nothing more to give.

“Eddard…I…I love you,” Eddard heard Senya’s final words in their mother tongue as she came down from her climax. His fingers had now abandoned her nub, but he still savored her sweet and tart taste, lapping her folds until he had his fill. When he decided he was finished, he rose from his sister’s open legs and admired the beauty of what they had done.

It wasn’t exactly wise and it certainly wasn’t proper considering they were in the godswood, but Eddard did not regret any of what they had done. Senya looked like the most beautiful thing he had ever laid eyes on as her moon-silver hair, woven in a braid, spread across the green grass underneath her and her violet eyes remained hooded with exhaustion. His gaze did not linger on her full lips or heaving breast for long. Eddard could not resist staring at her open legs, exposed by her skirt bunched at her hips.

Senya’s folds were glistening and begging him to return. Eddard almost answered their call, but remained where he was, taking in the sight. He always did this. He loved the way his sister looked when she recovered from their intimate activities.

“I love you,” Eddard swore, hoping Senya knew he would do anything for her. She meant more to him than anything or anyone in the world. He was grateful his parents had never betrothed him to another. _I would give up all my claims to have her. She is worth a hundred Summerhalls. No, that still does not describe her worth._

“And I love you,” Senya replied in a tired voice as he caressed her thigh again. He did not even realize he was doing it until her hand rested over his and pushed it away. Eddard was sad to see his sister push her skirt back down and readjust her silk dress so her breasts were no longer exposed. As much as he wished he could see her lay completely naked in the godswood, Eddard accepted her decision not to chance this any longer.

As Senya began to push off the ground, Eddard moved in to help her on her feet. With the grace of a Princess of House Targaryen, his sister smoothed her dress and tucked away the few loose strands of hair that managed to escape her braid. Her brow was still covered in a sheen of sweat, but Eddard trusted the cool air within the godswood to hide the last sign of their intimacy.

“That wasn’t proper,” Senya jested in a mocking tone. It was only when she began to laugh, Eddard realized she was mimicking his own voice.

“Loving my sister and my princess? I think that is proper,” Eddard returned with pride.

“Many would disagree,” she reminded him. The devout followers of the Faith of the Seven would surely protest to their marriage, but Eddard did not care for their opinion and Senya cared even less so.

“That’s because they do not have the most beautiful princess in the Realm,” Eddard responded, lifting a hand to her hair. He took the moment to admire her sweet smile with the flower still planted in her braid. After his eyes drank in her ethereal beauty, Eddard seized her hair and pulled her in for a searing kiss.

“Will you join me in the training yard?” Senya asked as she hooked her arm through his as they abandoned their corner of the godswood. Part of him wished to spend the rest of the day and the next in their sanctuary. If they were lucky, they would be left alone to share one another. Before the idea could take root in his mind, Eddard dismissed the notion, knowing the godswood was frequented by many in their family, including their Grandmother Lyanna.

“The training yard? You wish to spar?” he asked.

“No, I promised Naerys I would sit with her and watch Aemon. She wants my help to convince him to pick up the sword and abandon those books. She has it in her head I know how to keep him from leaving her. Naerys is scared he will ride for the Citadel one day and never come back,” Senya explained herself. _I should have known. She has no interest in swords._ “I told her, enough time around Valarr and Brandon, Aemon will learn there is more to life than the words of long dead maesters.”

“Do not encourage him to spend too much time with Valarr. Aemon may abandon a maester’s chain for a white cloak,” Eddard alluded to their little brother’s dream of becoming a member of the Kingsguard.

“We don’t want that, do we?” Senya replied, appearing deep in thought as they passed under the trees covering their path toward the godswood entrance.

“Daenys is afraid Valarr will get his wish and join the Kingsguard,” Eddard stated, realizing how similar Daenys and Naerys were. Both were sweet princesses with the typical Valyrian features that would surely capture the eyes of every lordling they came across. At thirteen years of age, his little sisters were already garnering the attention of the sons of powerful and unimportant Houses alike. _Our brothers should do what is right and love them._

“I shall help them both then. I cannot have my sisters wed to some summer knight or perfumed lordling,” Senya swore with a mischievous smile playing on her lips.

**Queen Visenya Targaryen**

“Lord Paxter promises his presence at the King’s Tourney…and a record harvest,” Visenya proclaimed as she carefully examined the raven scroll from the Arbor. Lord Paxter Redwyne also wished for the health of her children and wrote at great lengths about his grandsons of similar age to her daughters. _I admire the persistence my Lord, but your grandsons are too weak for my daughters._

“I’m sure that wasn’t all he wrote,” Rhaenys noted as she sat across the Painted Table from Visenya. She could see her sister was intent on rereading the scroll from Sunspear. Ravens from Princess Arianne Martell and Lord Edric Dayne were frequent and welcome. Rhaenys was always the first to break their seal and take in the news from her Dornish kin.

“No, it wasn’t,” Visenya confirmed her sister’s suspicions, turning toward the dying flames within the hearth. Between the low burning hearth, a few lit candles, and the approaching sunset, light was slowly fading from the Chamber of the Painted Table. Visenya would have called one of the servants to light more candles, but knew they were not long for the room. “He complains of Ironborn raiding his shores. They rowed ashore in the night and made away with five of his galleys, or so he says.” _The Ironborn do not care for the ships they believe are made by lesser men. More likely pirates._

“Galleys? Not war galleys or longships?” Rhaenys questioned with a disbelieving look. “I seem to recall the Lord of the Arbor, how did he say it, Your Graces, the Redwyne fleet is the finest to sail the seas. You would do well to rid yourselves of a Velaryon Master of Ships.”

“I remember,” Visenya laughed as she moved on to ravens from Sunflower Hall and Blackcrown. Lords Cuy and Bulwer were heads of lesser houses, but held respectable ambitions and a certain contempt for House Hightower. Visenya was always eager to read the lords’ messages and what they had to say with regards to Oldtown. She smiled to herself, amused by the fact she did not even need to seek these spies out.

“Arianne and Edric will come to this year’s King’s Tourney,” Rhaenys informed her before moving onto other raven scrolls from Dorne. At a quick glance from afar, Visenya could the sigils of Houses Vaith, Gargalen, Shell, and Dalt stamped into the wax that sealed each of the scrolls. “The children as well.”

“All of them?” Visenya questioned, hoping her sister would say yes. They hadn’t seen the Martells in two years since they had last sailed up the Narrow Sea and stayed at the Red Keep for three moons. Nymella Martell was a sweet girl who became a close companion of Vaella, Alysanne, and Allyria. Visenya hoped to see their friendship continue as it had before, despite the time they had been parted.

“Yes, Arianne says they will ride for Highgarden first,” Rhaenys replied, unfurling another scroll. Arianne and Edric were taking the long road to King’s Landing, but Visenya could not fault them for electing to visit Allyria before coming to the capital.

“All the Realm will be there,” Visenya mused, knowing her cousins Sansa and Robb had already promised to ride south. This was sure to be the largest tourney in their reign. Visenya was wise enough to know it wasn’t circumstance. Her children were coming of age and blood could run hot at tourneys. She trusted her cousins’ intentions, but for most of the lords of the Realm, she suspected they plotted to push their daughters upon her sons.

“That will be unfortunate,” Rhaenys jested, trusting Visenya to understand she did not carry an ill favor toward their kin. Visenya could not lie to herself. She would despise the games that would take place at court, but she longed to see the tents pitched outside the tourney grounds along the Blackwater Rush. The sights and smells of a good tourney always made her feel like the young Targaryen princess who had cheered for one brother clad in armor adorning their sigil and rooting for the other, disguised as a mystery knight, even when she did not know it.

“All the more glory for our sons then,” Visenya added, hoping Aegon or Jon would win the tourney. They would be a year younger than their father when he won it, disguised as the mystery knight. _I have faith in them. They are good riders, both of them. If only Eddard and Rhaegar would join them in the tilts._

“Dany too,” Rhaenys reminded her of Dany’s intention to carry her sister’s title as Archers’ Champion. Arya had surprised the Seven Kingdoms and all its knights and squires with her accuracy in the archery competition. Visenya enjoyed seeing the crestfallen faces of the boys and men who had lost out to a princess who appeared harmless and innocent to the unsuspecting.

Visenya had invested a great amount of effort and time into her daughters training with a bow and sword. She believed in Dany and knew there were few who would pose any real challenge. _The knights and lordlings are lucky Dany or Arya do not enter the melee. Many would find themselves on the flat of their backs._

“Your Graces,” Ser Garlan Tyrell made his presence known, stepping into the chamber in his spotless armor. His breastplate bore the sigil of House Targaryen, but the armor on his shoulders were etched with the roses of House Tyrell. Visenya considered him a far greater knight than his late brother, Ser Loras. _Loras was skilled, no doubt, but Garlan has a mind._

“Yes, Ser Garlan?” Rhaenys replied, abandoning the last of the raven scrolls laid out before her on the northern mountains.

“Lord Gendry and Lady Arya have put to port. They will be here shortly,” Garlan answered.

“Good, we will receive them in the Throne Room,” Rhaenys said, ready to stand from her chair until she saw Ser Garlan had more to tell them. “What is it?”

“Tollen and Maya are waiting to speak with you,” the kingsguard informed them. Tollen was the steward of their household on Dragonstone and Maya, the head of the kitchens. Both had lived on Dragonstone their entire life and came from respectable families who had served House Targaryen for more than a century.

“Send them in,” Visenya ordered, setting aside Lord Bulwer’s raven scroll. She needed to read the accounts from the royal treasury, but decided the strenuous task could wait for the morrow, after her morning spar.

“Your Graces,” Tollen and Maya came forward, bowing and curtsying.

“Have the guest chambers readied for Lord Gendry and Lady Arya. And be sure to have separate rooms readied for the children,” she ordered their old steward before turning to Maya, who was a woman of forty years with a pleasing face. “Is there time for a good roasted boar?”

“There is your Grace,” Maya replied with a gentle smile.

“Good, see that it is ready for tonight’s feast. It will just be our family, the Small Council, and the Baratheons. I trust you to decide on the rest,” Visenya delegated the rest of their meal to the head of the kitchens. She trusted the woman and expected a fine meal.

A short time after she had left the Chamber of the Painted Table with her sister, Visenya found herself in the Throne Room with the rest of her family. Most of her children were gathered at the bottom of the stone steps before the throne forged by dragonfire and skillful Valyrian stonemasons. To her frustration, she was forced to see to her youngest sons, Maekar and Robb.

Both her boys looked like they had come straight from the stables or training yard with windswept hair and ragged tunics. With time still to spare before her cousin and Gendry Baratheon arrived, Visenya waved her sons over to stand before her. With their heads held low, Robb and Maekar came forward expecting to be scolded.

“You knew they were coming and you still did this?” Visenya said, trying to hide her smirk as she straightened Robb’s silver curls. Unlike his twin brother, he inherited his father’s storm grey eyes. Her little princes showed promise with the sword and were excellent with a bow for their age, but she was still unsure of their futures. They were still young and showed an interest in everything they were part of.

“Brandon and Valarr started it. They said we couldn’t fight,” Robb defended himself. Visenya twisted her head to see Brandon and Valarr speaking with their sisters near the wall to her left. _At least they stood up for themselves._

“Why does it matter? It is just Aunt Arya and Uncle Gendry,” Maekar added, huffing as she fixed his hair and used the sleeve of his tunic to wipe a smudge of dirt from his brow.

“Because it is not just your aunt and uncle. It is your cousins, their household, and anyone else who may be with them. You are princes of House Targaryen, things are expected of you,” Visenya insisted before leaving a kiss on both their brows. Both grimaced as if she were embarrassing them in front of a hundred lords in the Red keep before they turned to leave. Grabbing their shoulders, she continued, “Where do you think you are going? You are staying right here before you get into more trouble. Save the trouble for later when your cousins Orys and Steffon are with you.”

Every time her sons would get into a little bit of trouble, Visenya made sure to warn them of taking things too far before encouraging them to continue with their mischief. She couldn’t help herself from pushing them to create a small amount of chaos within the castle walls. It was something she expected from her children and thought it would keep them from going mad in the Red Keep or Dragonstone.

“You two fought well,” her husband declared, standing behind their sons as he messed their hair, ruining all her work. Visenya rolled her eyes in defeat. “Your brothers will come to regret it one day. You two won’t be so small forever.”

She wanted to ask how her sons fought, but her questions were stifled by Jon’s lips on her own. Their kiss was brief and modest, but still full of the love they had shared with one another since the first time they had ever kissed in Qarth. Her first kiss was also her first time with Jon. Things moved quickly that day, all those years ago, and she would never forget a moment of it.

“Where have you been?” she whispered as Jon took his place between herself and Daenerys.

“Davos and I were discussing the royal fleet and potential changes to the patrols through the Stepstones,” Jon answered.

“Your Grace, they are here,” the herald came forward.

“Send them in,” Jon ordered, sending the herald back across the Throne Room to the large doors guarded by Unsullied.

Visenya thought it unnecessary, but the herald started to list off their names and titles as she watched Arya and Gendry approach through the opened doors. Behind them walked their three children, a handful of guards clad in Baratheon garbs and light chainmail, and a few servants after them. She did not attempt to hide her smile as she locked eyes with her dear cousin.

“Lord Gendry of House Baratheon, son of Stannis Baratheon and heir to Storm’s End. And his lady wife, Lady Arya Baratheon,” the herald needlessly introduced her kin. It was instances like this one that made Visenya wish to dispense with such formalities.

While her husband embraced Gendry, Visenya paid them no mind and stepped forward to wrap her arms around her cousin. Arya wore dresses when she must, but Visenya was not surprised to find her in riding leathers and a jerkin ill-suited for proper ladies at court.

“I’ve missed you. It has been too long,” Visenya declared after backing away to look at her cousin.

“Four moons?” Arya laughed. _A little more._

“Aye. I have grown used to seeing you at court. And I much prefer your company to the ladies who come and go,” Visenya confessed, always tired of the young and old ladies who sought an audience with her in King’s Landing. “And I miss having another lady to spar with.”

“I see several princesses worthy of being your sparring partner,” Arya replied, looking to her namesake and Dany standing at the end of the line of children.

“Aye, but it isn’t the same. I fear I hold back when I am with them,” Visenya said.

“Well, then I look forward to seeing you in the yard on the morrow,” Arya smirked. Visenya prayed she did not insist on using Needle, which would require herself to wield Dark Sister. She much preferred the practice swords to live steel, never liking the extra care she had to take with her Valyrian steel.

“There is my niece. I think you’ve grown taller since I last saw you,” Visenya said when Argella came to her mother’s side. _They all have._ She glanced to her left, finding Jon saying a few words to Orys and Steffon.

Each of the Baratheon children were black of hair. Orys and Steffon looked like their father, but Steffon inherited Arya’s Stark grey eyes along with his sister. Every time Visenya looked at Argella, it felt like she was drawn back to Winterfell, seeing her little cousin who always followed her around.

“Mother says I am still too small to ride a dragon,” Argella answered with the sad eyes of a child being denied a dream. Visenya could not tell whether this was a clever manipulation her niece hoped to hang over her mother, or the honest feelings of a child. She did not care, always having a soft spot for her niece.

“Because you are,” Arya warned her daughter.

“Allyria and Vaella rode dragons when they were my age,” Argella defended herself, making Visenya laugh. Argella was as brave and willful as her mother at that age.

“That is because they are dragons. Are you a dragon, Ella?” Arya asked her daughter.

“No,” Argella dipped her head, knowing her mother was going to prevent her from flying in the sky above Dragonstone.

“You are a stag,” Arya said before kneeling down to whisper to her daughter, “and a wolf.” Argella’s giggle brought Visenya some laughter, seeing so much of Arya in her.

“When you are old enough and your mother says it is alright, you should go to your cousin Senya. I am sure if you ask, she will take you for a ride on Stormfyre,” Visenya said, trusting Arya would not protest. By the smirk on her cousin’s lips, she did not overstep.

“Run along now, Vaella and Alysanne look to be waiting for you,” Arya urged Argella to join Visenya’s twin daughters standing at the edge of the Throne Room. As soon as Argella joined the princesses, they were immediately off to explore the castle.

“How was Storm’s End?” Rhaenys asked Arya, standing beside Visenya.

“It’s home,” Arya answered with a pained smile on her face. Arya was a true northerner and Visenya expected such a reaction. Visenya always worried how Arya would fare this far south for this long.

Arya reminded Visenya of a time they shared in King’s Landing when she was just a princess and Arya a little girl. Her cousin swore she would never wed and would never be a lady. Visenya was happy to see Arya proven wrong on the marriage part.

“Should I fear never seeing you again?” Visenya asked.

“No, Stannis still wants Gendry on the Small Council, representing House Baratheon. I think he is afraid to let Gendry take over some of his responsibilities as Lord of Storm’s End. He fears losing his edge,” Arya replied. “Perhaps he is right. Sometimes, I think I have lost some skill with a blade. I haven’t truly fought anyone since Winterfell.” _She is modest. She is still a dangerous foe._

“Let us hope is stays that way,” Rhaenys suggested.

“I hear this tourney will be the greatest in some years. Robb says many of the northern lords plan to ride south,” Arya said as Visenya caught Orys and Steffon running off with Torrhen and Daeron.

“Aye, Lord Ardrian is already fretting over its cost,” Visenya said, having already sat through several meetings with their Master of Coin expressing his concern for the King’s Tourney. Visenya was not concerned, reasoning the visiting lords, knights, smallfolk, and the rest would put plenty of coin in the coffers of the people of King’s Landing. _A relatively small expense to appease the people of the capital._

“Has he forgotten who his King is?” Arya jested. They all knew Jon was not a King who spent the treasury’s coin without care. He was far from extravagant and House Targaryen’s wealth had only increased in the years since they reclaimed the Iron Throne, in spite of the costs of a three-year winter.

“No, but that is why we chose him as our Master of Coin,” Rhaenys chuckled. If any of them were prone to extravagance, Visenya knew it was her sister. But Rhaenys was smart and a good Queen. Visenya never bothered to keep an eye on her, trusting she would never spend foolishly.

“What do you say we go for a ride on the morrow, like we used to at Winterfell? We do not have a Wolfswood, but there are some worthy plains to be found on Dragonstone,” Daenerys stepped in, interrupting their laughter.

“Aye, I would like that,” Arya accepted Daenerys’ invitation before they abandoned the Throne Room to occupy a solar until the night’s feast.

Visenya stood near one of the many warm hearths within the Great Hall, watching her family from afar. Her cousin, Arya Baratheon, had been whisked away by Princess Lyarra. Lyarra looked to be a beautiful girl with flowing raven hair and storm grey eyes. She may have inherited her father’s coloring, but if one truly looked at her, there was no mistaking she was Visenya’s daughter. She also looked to be promising with the sword, even at the young age of eleven years, and Visenya was sure her daughter would pester Arya for stories for the rest of the night.

Lyarra pulled her aunt to sit amongst her sisters who enjoyed sparring with their brothers, Dany and Arya. Visenya felt some joy watching her cousin tell her stories to the princes and princesses. Having heard Arya’s tale several times, she looked around the half empty hall saved for her family and the families of their close advisors. Most had finished their meals and all that remained were the deserts brought forth by the servants and the wine saved for the men and women.

“You seem happy,” she heard his voice in a near-whisper against her ear as his strong arms wrapped around her. Visenya couldn’t stop herself from leaning into his chest as she kept her eyes on her children.

“Aye,” she confirmed with a grin on her face, keeping a watchful eye on her eldest children. It seemed her prayers to the old gods were answered, for Jon and Dany looked to be even more in love than when they returned to Dragonstone. It was the way they looked at one another, as if the rest of the world did not matter. _Brandon and Sansa will not need any encouragement. Rickard and Rhaenyra on the other hand…_

“Should I be worried?” Jon replied.

“No, everything is perfect,” Visenya said. The affairs of the Realm were not perfect and never would be, but she would not let that fact ruin her mood. Her children’s happiness and the future of their House mattered more to her if she was being honest with herself.

“She is telling the story about the ride through the Wolfswood again,” Jon mused as their cousin made all of the children laugh. It was a simple story that always made Visenya laugh, remembering Jon being thrown from his horse when herself and Daenerys challenged him to a race. “Gods, Jon and Dany are older than we were then.”

“We are getting old,” Visenya mourned for what felt like lost time. It had seemed like a moon ago when she had given birth to Vaella and Alysanne in Winterfell and now she saw them dancing around the tables without need of music. _Where did the years go? I would give almost anything to have them back._

“Not you,” Jon said, pulling on her hips so she turned around to face him. “You are still as beautiful as you were when we first made love.”

“Liar,” Visenya accused him, rolling her eyes at his poor flattery.

“Have you ever known your King to be a liar?” he questioned, pulling her closer with a hand on the small of her back. She shook her head, knowing he was always truthful with her. His predatory eyes and the conviction in his voice made her wet. Visenya moved to capture his lips, but pulled back, not wishing to make a scene. _If I have him now, I do not think I could stop myself._

“Not here, not now,” Visenya warned Jon before arching an eyebrow, letting him know what she intended for their night. His cock inside her was nearly all she could think about with Daenerys’ cunt on her face and Rhaenys kneading her breasts, but she put aside such thoughts.

Turning on her heels, Visenya looked to the four tables occupied in the Great Hall. Everyone looked cheerful as Arya continued with her stories for the younger children while the eldest drank their wine and shared their affections. When her eyes found her mother, she recognized the look on her face.

“Mother wishes to speak with me. I hope you are well rested…,” Visenya said, beginning to walk away from her husband before turning around. In a voice just low enough for herself and Jon to hear, she continued, “You will not find much sleep tonight, my love.”

Jon still looked at her like she was the most beautiful woman in the world and she savored the feelings he stirred within herself every time he did it. Hoping to reward him and torture him, Visenya carefully swayed her hips just enough as she walked away. _I want you mad and ravenous tonight._

**Dowager Queen Lyanna Stark**

The cool morning breeze rolling in from the Blackwater over the walls of Dragonstone was beginning to lose its bite as the sun climbed higher in the sky. Elia had roused her from her sleep hours before, much to her displeasure until she felt a skilled tongue teasing her folds underneath the silken sheets of their bed. Lyanna was glad she did not protest and submitted to Elia’s forceful efforts, even if she had been worn out from the night before.

As they walked atop the eastern ramparts, Lyanna split her time admiring two views. There was the sunrise to the east and Elia’s beauty to her right. Lyanna was almost fifty years of age and Elia two years older than herself, but she still found the Dornish Queen just as beautiful as the first time she laid eyes on her at Harrenhal. They were both older, but time was kind to them. Lyanna only wished the world was as kind to her long dead King and son.

Lyanna Stark loved being a mother and grandmother. Watching little princes and princesses grow from helpless babes to dragonriders gave her the strength and joy to wake with hope in her heart every day. But she could not deny there was still something missing. She no longer suffered in her sorrow like she did the first year after their deaths, but there was not a day she did not think of Rhaegar or Aegon.

It was her children and grandchildren that kept her going. Even more so, it was Elia’s love that made her life worth living. She feared they would come apart as time passed without Rhaegar holding them together. Instead, they had only grown closer, despite what others may have thought of them. None had the courage to speak their thoughts, but Lyanna was not oblivious to the judgement of those at court who knew she still shared chambers with Elia.

“Are you looking forward to the King’s Tourney?” Elia asked, surely noticing Lyanna was only half-listening to her go on about the dresses the seamstresses had presented to her the day before. Lyanna honestly wished she had the same enthusiasm for Elia’s ladylike interests, but the sight of Vermithrex and Sonar flying in the distance over a pair of Targaryen ships was an easy distraction. Sometimes Lyanna wished she had her children’s Valyrian blood so she could take to the skies as freely as she could with a horse on the plains.

“You know the answer,” she replied, trusting Elia knew her well enough to know tourneys meant little to her. They were once a reminder of the time she first laid eyes on Rhaegar and when he won her heart. She used to enjoy them, especially when Aegon would enter the tilts and the time Jon entered as a mystery knight, naming Daenerys his Queen of Love and Beauty. In the years since the wars, she had grown tired of them and the politics that came with.

“Last year’s wasn’t so bad, was it?” Elia reminded her of Arya winning the archery. _Perhaps she is right, I did enjoy seeing Arya triumph._

“No, it wasn’t,” Lyanna confessed, running her fingers through Zokla’s black and grey fur. Egg’s direwolf still stuck by her side all these years later, keeping herself and Elia company. _If only you were there all those years ago. Everything would be different._

“Ashara will be there, Benjen as well,” Elia said, causing Lyanna to face Elia.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Lyanna demanded, overjoyed by the welcome news. Before they made their way to the Great Hall to break their fast, Grand Maester Pylos had told Elia of a raven from Highgarden. Lyanna paid it no mind and Elia said nothing of it at their table.

“It slipped my mind. I was distracted by Torrhen and the Baratheon boys running around the hall,” Elia responded.

“It still seems strange,” Lyanna thought aloud, remembering what it was like to have their best friend living with them in the Red Keep. Part of her secretly hoped Ashara would have returned to the capital after the Great War and Lyanna’s brother with her. “Ashara staying at Highgarden, I mean.”

“It does seem strange, but I am happy for them,” Elia said. Lyanna agreed, never having thought her little brother would be freed from his Night’s Watch vows or Ashara finding a man worthy of her love. Her queenly instincts also found the match advantageous for House Targaryen. Allyria’s children would not be raised, surrounded entirely by Tyrells. Lyanna trusted Lord Willas, but his family less so, save Ser Garlan.

Lyanna was ready to ask if there was any more news in Ashara’s raven until the sound of steel clashing with wood and hay distracted her. She thought it was odd, considering they were not near the training yard. They were closer to the godswood and Lyanna slightly hurried her steps to find who was disturbing the peace inside the castle walls.

At no surprise to herself, or Elia judging by the look on her face, Lyanna found Prince Jon. Her grandson was alone, wielding his Valyrian steel sword against the practice dummy. He struck is defenseless foe with all his strength and concentration, pretending he was battling a worthy opponent. _I should have known._

In silent agreement with Elia, Lyanna found the nearest stairs with Zokla following close behind as they descended into the yard below. She was concerned for her grandson and why he felt he must be alone while the rest of their family was still finishing their breakfast in the Great Hall.

“If you strike him any harder, there will be nothing left,” Lyanna announced her presence, seeing bits straw breaking apart at the dummy’s center. Her grandson halted his next strike with his sword raised in the air. Lyanna smiled when he turned around with his brow covered in sweat and his raven hair a mess.

“Grandmother,” he replied, returning a smile as he lowered his blade and closed the distance between them. He carefully raised his arms as he drew closer to hug her, but stopped himself. “Sorry, I do not wish to ruin your dress.”

“You think I care?” Lyanna admonished him, wrapping her arms around Jon. She noticed he was careful not to let his sword touch with it still in his hands.

“What are you doing out here by yourself? Why aren’t you with your brothers and sisters?” Elia asked as she relinquished Jon from her own grip, surprising Lyanna and her grandson alike. Elia cared to keep her dresses in fine condition, but did not hesitate to embrace her grandson.

“Father says you can only be as good as you train,” Jon answered, quickly glancing back to his practice dummy like they were keeping him away from the most important thing in the world.

“You remind me of him,” Lyanna said.

“Who?” Jon questioned with a furrowed brow.

“Your father. When he was your age, I would find him training early in the mornings, before anyone else. Your mother as well. They would train together for hours until they could barely lift their swords,” Lyanna said, cursing herself for not seeing Visenya’s feelings. _How could I have never noticed? I see it now, in them._

“They still do,” Jon said with a smirk on his lips. “I have seen them with Ser Arthur. They are far better than I will ever be.”

“Don’t say such silly things. We have faith in you,” Elia tried to comfort Jon with a careful hand on his shoulder. Lyanna could see he carried the weight of the world on his shoulders, like his namesake. One would be forgiven if they thought Jon was the Crown Prince by the way he trained, just as hard a Rhaegar. “And there is more to this world than swords and spears.”

“You know your father is proud of you. You do not need to be the Realm’s greatest swordsman to make it so,” Lyanna added, seeing the disagreement in her grandson’s grey eyes. “Or do we have it wrong? Is this all to impress a certain princess?”

“Grandmother!” Jon said in disgust. He never liked it when she brought up his relationship with Dany.

“What? You two do not keep it a secret like Rhaegar and Arya,” Lyanna replied with a shrug of her shoulders.

“I don’t want to talk about such things, not with you,” Jon replied and she decided to relent, seeing how embarrassed he was regarding his love for Dany.

“There you are!” Lyanna heard the familiar voice of her granddaughter from behind. Turning around, Lyanna saw Dany approaching with her typical black riding breeches and a dark red jerkin that was feminine enough not to hide her beauty. “I was wondering where you went.”

“We found him here, training by himself,” Elia replied as Dany made her way to Jon’s side with a sword on her hip. _She looks just like her mother at that age._

“You were supposed to wait for me. You were gone when I…,” Dany said before suspiciously stopping herself. Lyanna knew there was more to be said, but decided it was best she not speculate.

“We will leave you to it,” Lyanna said, catching Elia’s gaze and nodding to the Stone Drum. With her arm entwined with Elia’s, Lyanna left her grandchildren, passing Suvion and Dunk on the way to the main keep. Suvion reminded her of Ghost in many ways with his white fur and red eyes, only he was not so silent, especially when he was around her grandson.

Before they were far enough away, the sound of innocent laughter compelled them to look back from where they came. Lyanna saw Jon with his arms around Dany as she squirmed to free herself from his affections. Lyanna knew better. Dany’s efforts to free herself were half-hearted. Lyanna and Elia smirked together when they looked at one another, in silent agreement the prince and princess were perfect for one another.

“You sent for us?” Lyanna asked as Ser Barristan walked past her with a respectful bow of his head to herself and Elia. Her son was seated in the King’s chair at the end of the Painted Table with Daenerys and Rhaenys to his right, Visenya to his left.

“Aye, we are in need of your counsel,” her son replied with a grim look on his face. She understood the seriousness in his eyes. It was a trait she had learned to spot when he was just a small boy. He had learned to wear an unreadable mask as King, but he did not put on the façade around family.

“What is it?” she inquired, taking the seat next to her daughter’s, along the western coast. Elia followed, seated where the Mander flowed into the Sunset Sea.

“We do not think it is mere coincidence, these troubles in Myr and Tyrosh. Now the Redwynes complain of Ironborn attacks along their coast. We have received ravens from others,” Daenerys answered with a displeased look about her.

“You think one of the other Houses is plotting against us?” Lyanna replied, already knowing the answer.

“Lord Hightower, the High Septon, the Most Devout, some of the magisters in Essos we suspect,” Rhaenys confirmed, setting her cup of wine down on the table. _At least we disposed of the archmaesters who were predisposed to plot against us. Now the Faith shall see a similar fate._

“I thought the troubles in Tyrosh and Myr were settled,” Elia said, catching Daenerys’ reference to the unapproved taxes levied on ships in the Essosi ports. The men they had sent to deal with the matters had returned to Dragonstone, informing them one Tyroshi and two Myrish magisters lost their heads for crimes of corruption.

“They are, but now there is this business in the Arbor and up the Sunset Sea…Yara Greyjoy is not foolish enough to invite our wrath,” Rhaenys replied, confidant in her assessment of the Lady of Pyke. _No, but can the same be said of her captains? There is no shortage of fools and disloyal cunts on those shit-stained rocks._

“I was not around Lord Leyton enough to know the man. What do you think? Is he bold enough to start a war?” Jon asked herself and Elia. Lyanna tried her best, but failed to conjure up memories of her encounters with the Lord of Oldtown. Her clearest memories of the old man were his presence at war councils in Winterfell and the image of him bending the knee with the other lords of the Reach inside the Throne Room of the Red Keep. She was not fond of her time spent in Oldtown during a royal progress when she was Queen and the memories were difficult to piece together.

“He is smart and he is cunning, but brave? No, he is not. If he is behind this, he is seeking something else,” Elia spoke up, sensing Lyanna’s silence. “Does Varys not have his little birds listening in Oldtown?”

“He does, but I wanted your opinion,” Jon said after looking to his Queens. Lyanna was sure Elia’s words only confirmed her son’s suspicions.

“Do you have an idea of what the Hightowers are planning?” Elia asked.

“We think he means to sow enough discord amongst the lords of the Reach with these supposed Ironborn attacks. And there is the matter of the Faith. I am sure he thinks he can set the smallfolk against us if the septons are clever enough,” Daenerys said, leaving Jon to finish the assessment of Lord Leyton’s plot.

“If we are right and he does not want a war, he will come to us at the King’s Tourney. I am sure he will tread carefully and eventually offer his help to rid us of the septons in Oldtown and the Ironborn raiding the western shores. Lord Monford says his captains have seen new ships added to the Hightower fleet and Lord Varys has confirmed it. Convenient, he will have a new fleet for an attack on the Iron Islands,” Jon said with a hint of disgust. Lyanna was not sure if it was for the suspected treachery or Lord Leyton’s assumption Jon was not wise enough to see this plot unfolding.

“And his price?” Elia asked.

“Rhaegar,” Lyanna answered before anyone else did. “The Hightower girl, I forget her name, she is sure to be offered as his queen.” _I am sure that little whore will do her best to steal my granddaughter’s crown._

“We should warn Rhaegar. He must be careful,” Elia suggested.

“Rhaegar would never betray Arya,” Rhaenys added with faith in the prince.

“I will speak with him and his brothers, before we sail for King’s Landing,” Jon promised.

“You do not plan to stop this plot before the tourney?” Elia questioned. Lyanna shared her concerns, but also knew it was worth the risks. They would watch the Hightowers like hawks and her grandchildren were smart. Lyanna trusted their judgement and had faith in her own son’s abilities to deal with the political maneuvering against him. _Jon will prevent a war._

“All we have for evidence of his crimes are whispers and suspicion. If he proves himself guilty, then he will meet the King’s justice,” Jon promised.

“And what if it comes to war? What if the Faith Militant return and the smallfolk rise against us?” Lyanna asked. “Some of the other houses may come to their side. There are still those in the Westerlands who would see our heads on spikes if they could.”

“If it comes to war, it will be a short one,” Visenya swore in an icy tone reserved for those she despised. Lyanna sensed her daughter was nurturing a strong hatred for the Hightowers, but she was unsure of the reason. _Or perhaps it is the Most Devout and the Faith. She never liked reading about them in her books._

“Visenya is right. They have no real army that can stand against us,” Jon said and Lyanna agreed. _The Hightowers could muster a small army from Oldtown and a few minor Houses across the Reach mayhaps, but nothing more. Willas could crush them on his own. The smallfolk claim their devotion to the Faith, but that devotion is fickle, especially when it puts them on the side without dragonfire._

“If it comes to war, give them fire and blood. See to it the Hightower name ends with Lord Leyton and his heirs. I know you wish to be a fair and merciful King, but your father was mistaken when he allowed the Greyjoys to live,” Lyanna counseled her son, praying her words did not fall on deaf ears.

“I allowed the Greyjoys and Jaime Lannister to bend the knee,” Jon replied. _He thinks I disagree with his decisions as well._

“A different time. You were reclaiming the Iron Throne and uniting the Realm against the Night King,” Lyanna defended herself, knowing in her heart, she would have seen the traitors killed if it were her decision.

“It matters not. We are speaking of a war that is doubtful to occur,” Jon shifted the conversation. Lyanna sensed he did not wish to argue with her. She decided to let it go, trusting in his judgement, even if she thought he was too merciful at times.

“Nevertheless, contingencies are being put in place,” Visenya proclaimed.

“Contingencies?” Elia inquired.

“For House Hightower and the Starry Sept. No matter how this unfolds, we will move against the Faith. We have given them time to prove themselves loyal and allowed a great many leniencies. No longer,” Visenya declared with amethyst eyes that appeared to be a mixture of fire and ice. Lyanna wondered what they had planned for the High Septon and the Most Devout. _They will either be disappeared, publicly executed, or sent into exile under some elaborate story for their followers._

**Prince Aegon Targaryen**

Already displeased by his father interrupting his time with Nymeria, Aegon was cursing his little brother as he searched the Stone Drum. Everywhere he looked, he failed to find Benjen. He wasn’t in the training yard and he wasn’t with their brothers. Aeryn, Edric, Rickard, and Daemon were already gathered in the training yard, waiting for them.

Door by door, Aegon searched every room along the corridor leading to the library. When he reached the end, he thought to turnaround, believing he would only find Aemon reading one of his books. Knowing his father would ask if he looked everywhere, Aegon decided he must be thorough and entered the library.

Instead of silence, his ears were welcomed by the sound of Lya’s singing. His little sister never liked being alone and Aegon decided to find out who else was inside. To his surprise, at the far corner of the Dragonstone library, Aegon found his little sister dancing and singing with Benjen perched atop the window ledge.

Leaning against the last bookshelf, Aegon listened to the end of his little sister’s song. He did not recognize it and suspected it was her own. Lya had a talent for singing and was happy to hear another song of her own making. Benjen’s willingness to serve as her audience did surprise him. Benjen liked hunting and sparring. _He never speaks of songs or dancing._

“The singers will go poor if they hear your voice at court little sister,” Aegon complimented Lya after clapping his hands at the end of her song. He was happy to see her blush with a warm smile, proud and yet embarrassed by his compliment. “I didn’t know you like songs and dance little brother.”

“I do not. Lya made me listen,” Benjen hopped from the window, trying to hide the smile Aegon saw on his face before he knew anyone was watching.

“I did not!” Lya protested, pursing her lips with fury in her eyes. Aegon stifled his laughter, having never seen his little sister this angry. He wondered if he had ever seen her angry. There wasn’t a sweeter princess in the history of House Targaryen, he thought.

“Father is expecting us. It’s best we not disappoint him,” Aegon said, pulling on Benjen’s gambeson so he would follow. “If Benjen does not wish to listen to you sing any longer, I will little sister.”

A smile returned to his sister’s face and Aegon pulled his brother with him toward the corridor. Aegon didn’t say a word as they marched through the Stone Drum, making their way to the yard at the main gate. He knew his brother was embarrassed and understood why. Benjen was young, but Aegon suspected he held feelings for Lya. _He probably doesn’t even realize it._

“What does Father want?” Benjen asked as they stepped outside, into the yard. Aegon spotted their father and brothers standing near the stairs closest to the main gate. Ser Arthur and Ser Jonothor were with them, there for protection and guidance. Aegon could still remember the day his father taught him the proper way to defend the castle against a siege and the qualities required of a commander leading men into battle.

“You will see,” Aegon replied as they crossed the yard, passing several household guards readying a dozen horses with the assistance of Dothraki and Westerosi stableboys.

“Benjen! Come here,” their father waved Benjen on. Aegon followed as his little brother hurried to join them at the foot of the stairs.

“Where did you find him?” Rhaegar asked as Aegon climbed the granite stairs along the wall with his older brother. Their father and the Kingsguard were leading the five younger brothers to the ramparts to show them how to protect the gate.

“I will tell you later,” Aegon said with a smirk on his lips.

When they reached the ramparts, Aegon saw his father already showing the twelve-year-old princes where archers should be placed and where an enemy would place siege towers along the walls, however unlikely. Rickard was the first to ask questions, intent on impressing their father and learning proper battle tactics. Aegon did not think Rickard was the most skilled swordsman, but he practiced enough to become one. _He is smart enough to lead men into battle when he is old enough._

As Ser Jonothor began to preach the tactics required to defend against siege towers and what was required to bring them down, Aegon’s eyes lingered on the sight of Nymeria flying Moonlight in the distance. While his father and the knights discussed the use of oil and pitch, Aegon dreamed of his sister’s perfect breasts. They were more than a handful and larger than any of their sisters’.

The longer he dreamed of them in his hands and in his mouth, Aegon’s mind went to her cunt and its sweet taste. It had only been a fortnight since he had first seen her naked and given her the lord’s kiss. He worried he would disappoint her, but Nymeria seemed to like it and declared he was a skillful lover. _Lover…would she let me take her maidenhead?_

While his father continued to point to the weak spots and vital points of defense along the walls, Aegon walked beside Rhaegar. Rhaegar was listening to every word their father said. Aegon knew all of this already and kept his thoughts on Nymeria, wondering what it would feel like with his cock inside her tight cunt.

Finally, they came to the stretch of wall with the sea and jagged cliffs below. No army could attack from there, but a small band of brave and skilled men could. His father always saved this lesson for last, a reminder to them that an enemy should never be underestimated.

“An army cannot assault these walls, but a dozen men with rope and grappling hooks may,” his father said, standing against the battlements, looking out on the Blackwater with a weary look.

“Men can climb this?” Edric sounded disbelieving.

“The free folk used to climb the Wall for hundreds of years and that is seven hundred feet tall. Yes, men can climb these walls,” their father said before taking a step forward with Benjen, Daemon, Edric, Aeryn, and Rickard looking up to him. “There are brave men, on every side of a war. Never underestimate your enemy or they will make you pay for it. Some parts of castles are stronger than others, but every inch of the walls must be watched.”

“Did you ever have to defend a castle?” Edric asked, not doubting their father’s wisdom. Most of the stories Aegon and his siblings grew up hearing were of their father and mothers flying dragons, attacking castles, cities, and armies. They heard little to nothing of defending castles.

“Aye, twice, but only once was I on the walls,” his father said with a sad look.

“The Wall,” Rhaegar confirmed, making sure their younger brothers understood.

“Mother said you killed a giant and a hundred wildlings! You saved the Night’s Watch from Mance Rayder’s army,” Benjen said with pride. Queen Visenya raised them on stories of their father’s bravery and was always sure to tell them of his accomplishments at the Battle of Castle Black.

Aegon saw his father’s grimace and understood why he did so. He wasn’t proud of his victories and regretted the Battle of Castle Black ever taking place. The free folk are now part of the Realm and his father hated the fact thousands had to die before a peace was reached.

Castle Black wasn’t the only battle his father did not wish to talk about. His father taught him all he knew about warfare, the strategies and tactics necessary for victory, but rarely did he retell his own triumphs. Aegon could only recall a handful of times his father recounted his exploits on the battlefield and they were never as inspiring as the tales told by everyone else.

The battle they never spoke of was the one that took his father’s life. Only four years of age at the time, Aegon never learned of his father’s death until many years later. He still remembered stumbling into his parents’ quarters in the middle of the night after the long and slow journey up the Kingsroad on their return to Winterfell. At the time, he thought his father had simply won the Great Battle of Winterfell, defeating the Night King, the White Walkers, and the dead who marched with them.

When he learned the truth many years later, he only looked up to his father more, as did all his brothers and sisters. He remembered all the times he convinced the Kingsguard or any man who fought in the northern snow to recount his father’s victory, preventing another Long Night. As the years passed, the tale had made his father a legend and hero across the Realm. The singers and more poetic maesters at the Citadel called it the Battle of Ice and Fire. _Rhaegar will be a good king and Arya a good queen, but none will every be greater than Father and Mothers._

Lost in his thoughts, Aegon finally realized his father had moved on from the defenses of the castle and started telling his younger brothers how the Targaryen fleet should be used to defend Dragonstone. It was here, his father relied on Ser Jonothor Darry, whose expertise on the defenses of Dragonstone were unmatched. Tywin Lannister nor Cersei Lannister nor Euron Greyjoy ever dared an attack on the castle or the island while Ser Jonothor led its defense.

Aegon smirked when his little brother Aeryn’s ears perked up at the mention of ships and naval battles. Having heard this lesson a dozen times, Aegon turned his attention further down the ramparts while his dutiful older brother stayed the perfect Crown Prince and listened to every word, occasionally reaffirming the old knight’s words. A few hundred feet down the battlements, Aegon caught sight of Nymeria waiting for him and found himself staring her up and down.

Time felt still and his thoughts were trapped by her beauty. She was too far away, but he knew her violet eyes were the most beautiful sight he had ever seen, until he saw her naked as her first nameday in her bedchamber. _Gods, nightfall cannot come soon enough._

“Aegon…Aegon…Aegon!” his father caught his attention, forcing Aegon to turnaround. He found it was only his father and three eldest brothers standing behind him. Ser Arthur and Ser Jonothor were leading the younger ones down the stairs into the yard, likely to their sparring lessons. “There is something I must discuss with you. Each of you.”

“What is it?” his brother Jon asked.

“Your mothers and I do not think these magisters across the Narrow Sea were acting alone. These raids on the Arbor and the western coast are not the acts of Ironborn,” his father said, leading Aegon’s mind to go through the list of disloyal and unreliable Houses across the Seven Kingdoms who would act against them. Most hailed from the Westerlands, but Aegon was certain none had the wealth or reach to influence magisters in Myr or Tyrosh. His father continued, “And there are these septons preaching against our family. Against your mother and your sisters…”

Aegon thought his father was the most even-tempered person he knew, but he could see the flames flickering in his grey eyes. If there was one thing Aegon knew could enrage his father, it was threats against the women in their family. _If the Faith are plotting against us, who with? Father will reduce their castle to ash if they threaten my sisters. I will reduce their castles to ash._

“Lord Hightower,” Rhaegar seemingly read his mind, answering the question he did not speak.

“Aye,” their father confirmed. “We must be careful. For now, Lord Hightower is innocent and there is nothing tying him to these crimes. The King’s Tourney is approaching and most of the Realm will be in King’s Landing this year. That means the Hightowers and any Houses who may be allied with them.”

“Do they mean to start a war?” Eddard asked with a steely tone. Aegon was just as prepared as his brothers for a war. They would rain down dragonfire on the Hightowers and any host brought forth by a new Faith Militant. _We are not King Aenys._

“No, Eddard,” their father answered.

“Lord Leyton means to betroth a granddaughter to me,” Rhaegar answered for their father, already having figured out the plot.

“That is what we suspect. You must be careful, each of you. None of this may come to be true, but keep your guard up at the tourney, and not just around any Hightower girl,” his father emphasized his point, looking each of them in the eyes, lingering longer on himself than his brothers. Aegon felt wounded, knowing his father worried for his actions more than his siblings. _I know I am the loudest and sometimes impulsive, but does he know me at all? I would never betray Nymeria. Not for anyone. She is the only one I will ever love._

“Say nothing of this to no one. This stays between us and your mothers and your sisters. Am I understood?” his father asked. _Nymeria already hates Meredyth Hightower. If she tries anything, Nymeria will feed her to Moonlight._

“Yes,” each of them echoed. Their father gave them a nod, showing some confidence in them before turning to join the Kingsguard waiting for him at the bottom of the stairs. They waited until he was gone and unable to hear them.

“If Lord Leyton and the High Septon want a war, I will burn their armies, the Starry Sept, and that damned Hightower,” Aegon fumed, thinking about the whispers he had heard from Oldtown. Septons were telling their followers House Targaryen was filled with sinners, praying to the old gods and Valyrian gods. They preached his mothers were whores and his sisters, bastards and whores. Aegon did not care for those who called him the Bastard Prince, but he made sure to make those suffer who called Nymeria bastard. The Faith were naming all his sisters bastards. _I’ll kill every last one of them who means our sisters harm._

“Don’t be foolish, Egg,” Rhaegar tried to calm him. Aegon could only feel himself scowl, wondering why Rhaegar was so calm about this matter. “War is unlikely.”

“They could not defeat us,” Eddard said.

“No, but the Faith could make things difficult. Father is right to be cautious. They are the weakest they’ve ever been, but they still have thousands of devout followers from Oldtown to Maidenpool. If the High Septon wants, he could send the Militant or Sparrows or whatever they may call themselves from town to town, holdfast to holdfast, farm to farm, raping, pillaging, and killing the smallfolk. No armies can stop that easily,” Rhaegar painfully made sense. Aegon wanted to rage, but knew his brother’s words rang true.

“What should we do about the Hightowers?” Aegon asked, feeling compelled to take action. He never liked leaving things to others.

“Nothing, leave this to our parents. They will have a far better plan than we can dream up. Anything we would do could only ruin what they plan for the Hightowers,” Rhaegar said, turning to face the sea. “And that is if this is true. It may not be. It could be another House or some magister or banker or former slaver in Essos.” _Unlikely. If Father is telling all of us about this, then he believes it is true._

It all made sense to Aegon. His first guesses of treachery would be Houses in the Westerlands, but his mother insisted Lord Jaime Lannister was loyal to her and House Targaryen, even if he was a lion of Casterly Rock. And the other Houses, Aegon knew they were too weak. House Hightower was the only family rich and powerful enough to devise these schemes and later approach the Iron Throne with a solution to end the troubles.

If they were wrong and this wasn’t a plot to wed a daughter to a Prince of House Targaryen, Aegon could only guess their foe was planting the seeds of war. Only, Aegon could not reason why anyone would do so the longer he thought about it. _We have twelve dragons, seven kingdoms, the largest navy the world has ever seen, and a horde of Dothraki that would love to have another war. Only a mad man would wish to fight against such odds._

**Lady Arya Baratheon**

Making her way back to her chambers alone, how she liked it, Arya Baratheon slowed her footsteps when she noticed the sunlight passing through the nearest window. The wall to her right, shaped by dragonfire and Valyrian sorcery or skill, was illuminated for her to admire. She had been to Dragonstone countless times, but it was only now she was taking the chance to take in what she was surrounded by.

As a little girl growing up in Winterfell, she dreamed of visiting Dragonstone and seeing living, breathing dragons. Sansa was always there to remind her dragons were gone, until they were not. For whatever reasons, after the Great War and the three-year winter that followed, she had forgotten the tales of old Valyria and House Targaryen that once captured her imagination.

With each dragon, basilisk, and manticore Arya passed, she wondered if her children dreamed of seeing such wonders. _Do the dragons fill them with wonder and awe? Or are they just like Nymeria? Another beast they have known their entire lives and think it ordinary?_

Arya grew up with the direwolf as her sigil and her dearest cousins carried the three-headed dragon as their sigil. Now she was the future Lady of Storm’s End and her children would lead men under the black stag on a golden field. _I suppose it could be worse. My children’s sigil could be a trout._

Reaching the end of the hallway, Arya nodded to the bowing household guard who protected their living quarters, one level beneath those occupied by House Targaryen. They shared this level of the castle with the families of the men who sat on the Small Council. Lord Davos Seaworth, Varys the Spider, Lord Ardrian Celtigar, Lord Yohn Royce, Ser Jorah Mormont, Missandei, and Grey Worm all had chambers nearby. Maester Pylos took up quarters closer to the rookery and library, while Lord Monford Velaryon was allowed chambers near the royal family due to his marriage to Queen Rhaella.

Her family’s solar was empty, without a sign of children’s presence. _Likely off and about with Torrhen or Allyria. Or even Alysanne and Vaella._

As Arya unfastened her sword-belt, she nudged the door of her bedchambers open to find her lord husband staring out the window with a view of Blackwater Bay. Gendry look displeased, at the very least annoyed. Wondering what she had missed, Arya tossed her belt and scabbard onto their unkept bed. Arya was no lady, not truly, and none of her handmaidens had come to clean their chambers.

“How was it?” Gendry asked as she slid her arms around his torso, leaning into his muscular form. There were times actions such as this felt foreign to her, but she was always reminded of the love she had in her heart for Gendry. She fought it all those years ago until she could no longer turn away from the truth. While not ordinary by any means, Arya had become the very thing Sansa dreamed of, a southern lady wed to the heir of a great House.

“She is getting better, much better,” Arya said, referring to her namesake’s skill with a sword. The princess named after her, and Princess Dany were getting better by the day. After not seeing them for months, Arya was caught off guard by their speed and tactics. Both princesses were eager to impress and Arya was not ready for that, losing at the start of their first morning spar a sennight ago. Arya sensed they had somehow improved since then. _Curse Visenya. She means to embarrass me._

Arya waited for him to say something, but Gendry remained silent, brooding over something. She tried to read his features and understand what had put him in a foul mood, but failed. _I am better with swords and arrows and lies, but he has told none._

“You do not look happy,” she stated the obvious, earning a huff from him. “Was it something I did? Something I said?”

“No…yes…I don’t know,” Gendry said, trying to avoid a coming conflict. Gendry was the future Lord of the Stormlands, but Arya found it amusing he did his best to avoid the occasional storm that stirred between them.

“What is it?” she demanded an answer, looking up at his deep blue eyes.

“Why did you insist on coming here?”

“You occupy your father’s seat on the Small Council, do you not? The Small Council is on Dragonstone for the moment, if I am not mistaken,” Arya responded, confused as to why he was displeased to be on Dragonstone.

“Aye, the Small Council is on Dragonstone, but our home is Storm’s End. The Seven Kingdoms are fine in Jon’s hands. The council does not need me and we do not need to spy on this king. Do you not like it at Storm’s End? Do you think you made some mistake wedding me?” Gendry let it out. His words sounded truthful, painfully so.

“What?” was all Arya could say, with a hitch in her voice and a quivering chin she tried to hide. Many thought she was cold and emotionless at court. She could not blame them, but her family knew her better than that. Gendry knew that was untrue, more than anyone.

“Do you not wish to be my lady?” he asked, turning from the window to look down at her.

“How could you say something like that?” Arya replied, never knowing their short stays at Storm’s End wounded him. “If I had known this hurt you, I would have stayed.”

“You didn’t answer my question,” Gendry argued, grabbing her arms with his strong hands. He did not hurt her or mean any harm. Arya understood he was wanting her full attention, as if she could be thinking of anything else in a moment such as this.

“Because it is a stupid question. I love you, you fool. I love our children. I love our family. You think I want to be rid of you? Of them?” she hissed, angered by his doubts and possible accusation. Arya knew he loved her. _Why does he doubt I love him?_

“No,” he admitted, looking down at the ground, still looking unsure of his words.

“This is all because we left Storm’s End earlier than planned?” Arya spoke up after taking a few moments to find the beginnings of this argument.

“This is because you never seem to like it there. Every time we return to my home, you seem ready to pack your clothes away on your horse, ready to return to King’s Landing or Dragonstone or gods forbid, Winterfell,” Gendry let out with his voiced raised louder than usual. Arya was now thankful her children were off, playing with their Targaryen kin.

“I’m sorry,” she mumbled. Arya hated apologizing, but not in this instance. She could not deny his words. Storm’s End did not feel like home, not truly. In King’s Landing or Dragonstone or Summerhall, she had her children and Gendry and her cousins. Sometimes, she even had her sisters, Allyria or Sansa, visiting. At Storm’s End, she felt a stranger, surrounded by people she did not know.

Shireen was pleasant enough company at Storm’s End, but she was now gone and wed to the future lord of Harvest Hall. Stannis Baratheon was cold and Lady Selyse seemed half-mad. Arya was never hoping to make Storm’s End her home for too long, not until she had to. _I must change, for our marriage and our children._

“Will…Will you forgive me?” she asked, angered at herself for the tear streaking down her cheek. “If you want, we can return to Storm’s End today. I will gather…”

“No, that isn’t the point,” Gendry said.

“But it is. I love you. I want to make you happy. If we are not happy on Dragonstone, I do not want to be here. We can leave,” Arya said, hoping to please him. She felt selfish and unworthy of his love after reflecting on her actions. _He is right. I have never truly said a kind word about our home. Our home…_

“Do you really mean it?” he asked, cupping her face with a gentle thumb wiping away her tear.

“Aye,” she replied, nodding her head. “I want us to be happy. I accepted your betrothal because I loved you and I still love you. You are right, I have not treated Storm’s End as our home. I was wrong. It is our future and our children’s future, not here or the capital or Winterfell.”

A small smile crept onto his face as Arya held her tongue, waiting for Gendry to say something. He took the moment to see if she meant it. She prayed he saw the truth and understood she was not lying.

“I will tell the guards to ready our ship,” she said, turning to leave their bedchambers. Gendry stopped her before she could move an inch from their place near the window.

“No, we will stay. I just wanted to know the truth. I feared the worst and prayed it wasn’t true. Storm’s End can wait. We have the rest of our lives and the castle isn’t going anywhere. I just want us to be honest with one another,” Gendry said.

“I love you,” was all Arya could say. _There are more words, but I am not a bloody poet._ Not letting him get a chance to respond, Arya stood on her toes and took her husbands lips, reminding him there was no space between them. _I will not let us be torn apart._

Arya felt like she was coming apart has his hand dove into her hair and his tongue battled hers. She wanted more and expected more, biting his lower lip ever so slightly. She was not a gentle lover and Gendry knew that. She was not a typical lady, or so she thought.

“My Lady,” he said after breaking off from her kiss, swiping away a drop of blood with two fingers. Incensed by his comment, something that drove her mad since they escaped King’s Landing together as children, Arya slapped his chest.

Her slap stoked the flames between them and Arya saw everything in his eyes. He loved her and she loved him. She could feel herself getting wet for him as she rubbed her thighs together, relieving the building tension. Not leaving another second to be parted, Arya felt his hands on her ass, lifting her off the ground. Gendry was quick and forceful, sure in his decision as he thrust her onto their bed.

Both were rushing to remove their clothes. Arya wanted him inside her as soon as possible and she could see his cock was fighting just as hard to free itself from his breeches. Gendry was quicker about removing his clothes and tore off her smallclothes, for they were all that remained, covering her skin.

Usually, he took his time to savor her body and stare at her nakedness. Not this time. This time, Gendry spread her opening legs and pierced her wet folds with his cock. Arya liked building up to things, but now she felt impatient and wanted him to make her cum. She was already halfway there. _Seven hells, I cannot remember the last time we did this after a fight._

The sounds of their sex filled their bedchamber and likely the solar beyond their half-opened door. Arya knew she was risking one of the maids or even worse, one of her children walking in, but she did not care. The risk was worth it as their hips collided and Gendry’s cock buried itself deeper and deeper inside her.

Arya’s moans and the occasional scream of his name filled the room. She saw the love and passion Gendry saved for her through her own hooded eyelids. Feeling her walls closing around his length, Arya dug her nails into the silk sheets around her and wrapped her legs tighter around her husband, making sure he would not leave her cunt.

“Fuck…Gendry,” Arya sobbed until she felt herself come undone as her toes curled and her hands fisted her sheets. Her back arched and her heart stopped beating as her climax came and went. Conveniently, Gendry was spilling inside her just as she came for him.

It wasn’t the longest sex they had ever had, not even close, but Arya enjoyed it all the same. Somehow, their fight and her guilt seemed like a lifetime ago. It did not fix things. Arya knew she had to change things herself and make an effort to accept her future at Storm’s End. _It is my home. My family’s home. I am Lady Baratheon. I cannot be Arya Stark of Winterfell forever._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not entirely happy with the Lyanna Stark POV. Probably another 1 to 3 chapters on Dragonstone before the return to King's Landing. Next chapter is not entirely planned out, but there will be a Rhaenys POV. (Let me know if you have a POV request)
> 
> Please leave any questions, criticisms, etc. in comments below.


	4. Dragons, Thrones, & Caves

**Queen Rhaenys Targaryen**

Just returned from a short flight west around King’s Landing and the surrounding lands, Rhaenys walked the hallways of Dragonstone with Ser Garlan as her shadow and the ten household guard he commanded. As always, Myrax raised her already high spirits. The Realm was at peace, House Targaryen was more powerful than it had ever been, her children were still growing before her eyes, and Rhaenys was still in love with Jon. Her crimson scaled dragon had a way of helping her forget the stresses of ruling and focusing on what made her happy while they flew high in the sky with nothing weighing on her shoulders.

After a quick change out of her riding leathers saved for dragonriding, Rhaenys found a fine Essosi dress of purple silks that were nearly dark enough to match her eyes. She smirked when she held the silks in front of her naked form in front of the looking glass, imagining how her King would react seeing her in it. Rhaenys knew her husband and craved his lustful stares whenever she or her sister or Daenerys wore a provocative dress picked by one of the handmaidens.

“Where is he?” she asked Shadow, her loyal direwolf who still protected her to this day. There was very little blood of the First Men running through her veins, but Rhaenys felt just as strong a connection with her wolf as she shared with Myrax. Shadow always understood her questions and commands and had always been there to protect her or her children.

Remaining silent, Shadow twisted his head, almost as if he was considering her question before trotting ahead of her down the hallway. Hoping not to lose her companion, Rhaenys lifted her skirts and followed the wolf through the maze of corridors in the Stone Drum. The sound of chainmail shifting, armor clattering, and soldiers’ boots echoing off the stone walls followed her until they reached the corridor leading to the Throne Room.

As she approached, she saw Ghost sitting on his haunches with Ser Arthur Dayne and Ser Simon Sunglass standing on either flank. Shadow hurried ahead to join Ghost while the Kingsguard maintained their protective watch, even within the safety of the castle walls. Even to this day, the original four Kingsguard that served her grandfather were overcautious. During their time of service, they had seen three kings and one crown prince die. She suspected that weighed on them heavily. _Well, two Kings at least._

Rhaenys, like Jon, always made sure to speak highly of their Kingsguard. She knew better than to consider the deaths in her family their failures. _Grandfather was mad and deserved to die. Father and Egg were betrayed by…_ She still hated even thinking her uncle’s name. _And Jon…How does a knight stop his foolish King from running into battle?_

“Your Grace,” both knights bowed their heads at her approach.

“Is the King alone?” she asked, looking to Ser Arthur. The Sword of the Morning was older, but from what she had seen in the training yard, Arthur was just as quick and strong as she remembered him as a little girl in the Red Keep watching her father spar.

“He is, your Grace,” Arthur answered.

“Good. I should like the speak with the King alone,” Rhaenys replied, smiling to herself as she passed the Kingsguard. Before leaving her guard and the direwolves behind, she halted in her tracks. “No one is to disturb us, spare Visenya or Daenerys.”

Seeing both of the knights understood her orders, she continued her march through the doors that were quickly closed behind her. From there, Rhaenys made her way through the arched corridor that led her to the steps of the throne. It was in the Throne Room, she found Jon standing alone, staring at his throne.

The sight reminded her of the many ambitious men she had caught staring at the Iron Throne. From the time she was just a little princess to now, as a Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, she had seen many lords imagining themselves sitting upon the throne forged by the fires of Balerion the Dread. Only with Jon, it was different.

Where others looked at a throne with boundless ambition, her husband and brother looked to what was rightfully his with fear and skepticism. Jon was sure of his decisions and capabilities, but he still felt as if he did not earn the right to be King. She knew he still thought of the throne as Aegon’s. Countless times, she had assured him of the good he had accomplished as King and countless times, Jon told her he did not think himself worthy of their deceased brother’s crown.

“Sometimes, I worry,” she stated, alerting Jon to her presence. He turned his eyes away from the throne to her, gifting her a smile he saved for his queens. “I worry about leaving you, here, alone with those foolish thoughts of yours.”

“Not everything I do is foolish,” Jon replied in a jestful manner as she came to his side, capturing his lips for a brief moment. To her satisfaction, she caught his eyes spying her low-cut dress that revealed much of her breasts and bared most of her back, stopping just above her ass. Jon worshipped her body just as passionately as their first night in Astapor, but it was her eyes he always stopped at. She was beautiful, but Rhaenys knew that was not why Jon loved her. He loved her because she was his sister and the bond they had shared that had blossomed into a deep love she never expected to find after Egg.

“No?” she questioned with sarcasm dripping in her voice. If any had asked her, she would truthfully say Jon was the wisest King to ever sit the Iron Throne. He had his faults when it came to matters of combat and risking his own life, but Rhaenys knew full well she could be accused of the same.

“I married you,” he said, brushing his thumb gently across her bottom lip. “I don’t think that was foolish.”

“I seem to recall that being my idea,” she lied, earning some laughter from her husband.

“Aye, as my Queen says,” he responded, this time leaving a searing kiss upon her lips. As his tongue bid entrance to her mouth, Rhaenys felt herself wanting Jon inside her while his hand slid down her back, underneath the silk. They were alone and he greedily kneaded her cheeks, knowing her dress allowed for such pleasures.

“We are alone,” Rhaenys stated the obvious, looking to the throne after their lips had parted.

“Rhaenys…,” Jon replied, keeping to how he thought a perfect King should act. His eyes betrayed him as well as past actions. Rhaenys had fucked him in this very throne room as well as the one in the Red Keep. She did not know the reasons, but it thrilled her when Jon fucked her on the Iron Throne or the one before them. Sometimes she thought it brought her back to a time when she had to sneak around and hide her love. Making love in a throne room was not entirely dissimilar.

“You’re going to fuck me on our throne, Jon Targaryen,” Rhaenys ordered in her more seductive tone that always made him hard. She could feel it now. Jon’s cock was fighting to get out of his breeches while his hand squeezed her ass a little harder.

“A Queen shouldn’t say such things,” he whispered, leaning his brow against hers.

“No, I suppose not,” she confirmed with a grin. “Then you shall fuck your wife on our throne.”

“I don’t think a wife should be saying such things either,” Jon continued their little game, inching just that much closer to her face. 

“You’re going to fuck your big sister on our throne. How does that sound for proper?” Rhaenys replied, this time bringing her hands to the buttons of his gambeson. She had successfully stoked the low burning fires within Jon and he just as fiercely pulled at the shoulders of her dress. _Damn him and all these layers._

While she had much work to do, two quick pulls on the shoulders of her dress had the purple silk pooling at her feet next to the stone steps. In between their desperate and hurried kisses, Rhaenys violently pulled on Jon’s breeches as he managed to free himself of his gambeson and tunic. Years of passionate practice had them both naked as their first namedays in less than a minute.

It was only herself and Jon, two Targaryens sharing one another before the throne forged with dragonfire by their ancestors. The feeling of his cock pressing into her stomach still made her as wet as a maid. He tasted finer than any wine and bit on her lip with such ferocity, she imagined he felt the same for her.

“I…I need you inside me,” Rhaenys let out through hurried breaths, desperate for air. The tension between her legs was becoming unbearable and she wanted him even more after her feet left the cold stone floor. With her breasts resting against his muscled and scarred chest, Rhaenys returned to his lips again as she was carried to the throne.

“My Queen…,” Jon said, staring at her breasts after sitting on the throne. Rhaenys sat on her parted knees with Jon sitting beneath. She wanted to get on with it and move straight to their lovemaking, but relented to his will.

“Ah!” she gasped as his teeth grazed her pebbled nipple. Her cunt still begged for his presence, but Rhaenys was happy he always took his time with her. Jon had a way of reminding her to find patience and make their sex ever sweeter.

Rhaenys savored the feeling of his tongue on her breasts, granting both equally thorough attention. It was only when she opened her eyes again, looking upon the high ceiling above, she realized her hand fisted his freed raven curls. _You are staying right here, love. Right there…_

“Jon!” she nearly screamed after fingers sneaked their way to her clit. His attack was unexpected and very effective, drawing her out of the pleasant daze she had found herself in. Needing more, Rhaenys stood with her feet on either side of Jon’s thighs. She looked down at him with a mischievous smile, even though they both knew what came next.

Carefully, Rhaenys turned around and settled onto his long cock that was waiting for her. With both hands, she grabbed his throbbing length, guiding him toward her cunt. The feeling of his tip piercing her slit only fastened her heartbeat, almost like it was the first time.

Before Rhaenys sank as far as she could go, Jon’s strong arms enveloped her, pulling her back against his chest. She felt the sheen of sweat beginning to cover her body as Jon kneaded her breasts with his warm hands and sucked on her pulse. His affections made her stomach flutter and her breath hitch.

“My beautiful Queen…my beautiful sister,” Jon whispered in High Valyrian against her ear when his fingers circled her nub again.

“My…,” she tried to tease him, but couldn’t focus as her hips began to roll, feeling his hard cock still sheathed within her folds. It felt amazing, taking control. And with that control, Rhaenys’ no longer rolled her hips and lifted her ass so she could ride Jon like a wife who truly loved her husband. _Gods, how can all those ladies be satisfied with lesser men?_

“Rhae…” Jon growled loud enough so she could hear him over her own sobs and the sound of her ass colliding with flesh. “Rhaenys…Rhae…gods you are so…”

Every time she heard her name, Rhaenys forced herself to ride harder and faster, for Jon and herself. She was determined to have her way with him and find her peak before he gifted her his seed. And with every blow, Rhaenys felt herself getting closer and closer to her wish. The Throne Room surely smelled of their sex and she was sure the closest guards could hear her screams of his name.

Faster and faster, Rhaenys rode Jon until she made the mistake of rising too high, losing the feeling of his cock between her legs. She was ready to curse herself as she came back down, but his cock was still standing there. A cry escaped her lips when his tip slid along her folds, hitting her clit. “Jon…please…,” Rhaenys pleaded, almost with tears in her eyes. 

Her loving husband understood and pushed his length back inside her while her hands clutched the arms of the throne. As soon as she felt him rightfully inside her again, she returned to her hurried pace. This time, Jon was thrusting into her with everything he had.

“Jon! My King…. There, right there!” Rhaenys screamed, sensing her walls closing in around him. Either her sobs or her tight cunt was too much for him. Rhaenys could feel he was close. His cock was ready to give her his seed and his calloused hands were not so caring, bringing her hips down onto him.

Three more thrusts and Rhaenys saw stars as her hands slipped from the arms of the throne and her toes curled beneath her. She tried to continue, but Rhaenys’ final moments were half-hearted thrusts onto Jon’s length. She wanted to give him more, but couldn’t. Rhaenys was spent and fell back into his chest with her eyes closed to world.

Rhaenys did get some satisfaction from the feeling of Jon spilling into her cunt as he continued his thrusts as he held her tired body. When her eyes finally opened and she finished reveling in her own ecstasy, Rhaenys remembered she was lucky to have a husband that could please her and last as long as he could. By her own estimation, she guessed there were far too many lords in the Seven Kingdoms who were not up to the challenge of pleasing their wives.

Instead of saying anything, they both sat there on the throne, taking in what they had just done. Rhaenys kept a sinful smirk on her lips, pleased Jon was still hard, filling her folds. _Why can’t we stay like this forever? Curse the Realm and its problems. Nothing is better than making love to him all day._

“I think I want us to have another babe,” Rhaenys half-jested, breaking the silence. Jon’s lips retreated from the nape of her neck and she could feel him still behind her with worry.

“What?” he responded nervously.

“I miss it sometimes…having a little babe in my arms, watching them grow,” Rhaenys answered truthfully. Many of her fondest memories were holding her little princes and princesses in her arms. Now, her children were growing old and no longer seemed to need her. _I still have Torrhen and Allyria. They still need me, but for how long?_

Deciding to end Jon’s pain, Rhaenys looked over her shoulder, seeing a scared look across his face. To his relief, she gave him a smile that let him know she was not intending to bring another prince or princess into the world.

“Are you trying to stop my heart?” Jon asked, pulling her back against his chest with a searing kiss left in the crook of her neck. “It won’t be long before our children have babes of their own.”

“No, it won’t,” she agreed, trying to guess who would wed first. She longed to see Nymeria and Aegon say their vows before a weirwood, but something told her Rhaegar would surprise them all. “Gods, we are too young to have grandchildren.”

“Our mothers were not that old when we had Aegon and Nymeria,” Jon added, cupping her breasts in his hands, rolling his fingers across her nipples. “You are still young and beautiful. And I will love you when we grow old and I grow ugly.”

“What about when I become ugly?” Rhaenys turned around, pouting her lips. Jon’s cock was hard as ever again, enticing her to go again. Instead, she lifted her eyes across his taut and scarred body to his dark grey eyes.

“Impossible,” he said before taking a breast in his mouth again. _We all become ugly someday._

Rhaenys wanted to make love to her King once more, but froze in his arms at the sound of footsteps echoing through the Throne Room. Instinctively, Jon pulled her flush against him with his hands on her ass. She was sure he was doing so to cover her up, but she also knew he loved holding her cheeks in his hands.

When she glanced over her shoulder to find the source of the intrusion, Rhaenys saw Daenerys and Visenya approaching. She and Jon shared a sigh of relief. The Kingsguard had done their duty and permitted the only two souls she would accept seeing them like this. While she certainly did not consider herself a prude as her sister once was, Rhaenys kept a certain sense of propriety that some of her Dornish friends did not share.

“We have been deceived,” Daenerys stated with a raised eyebrow. It was only now, Rhaenys remembered her promise to walk the godswood with her fellow Queens and lovers.

“She wants him all for herself,” Visenya followed in an accusatory tone, stifling the hint of amusement on her lips.

“I’m not the first to have our husband…,” Rhaenys said, getting up from Jon’s lap to stand on her own feet. As she made her way down the first step and looked back at him, she continued, “On our throne.”

Visenya picked up Rhaenys’ discarded dress from the floor and moved to hand it to her as she descended the steps. When she reached her sister, Rhaenys accepted the violet silk and threw it aside. _I am not finished with Jon or you two yet._

Her sister wanted to say something, but Rhaenys heard none of it, taking Visenya’s soft lips for herself. Rhaenys thought she still tasted sweet and innocent, but knew that was only because she could not see her as anything else. Taking the hint, Visenya began to remove her silks while Rhaenys moved onto Daenerys.

Daenerys was already naked for her and Rhaenys pounced on her full lips. Their kiss was passionate and slow, each taking the time to savor the other. When they parted, Rhaenys went down on her knees and put her hands on Daenerys’ ass. She wasn’t going to let her escape to their husband. Daenerys had pleasured her cunt two days before and Rhaenys eagerly reciprocated. It was only after Daenerys fisted Rhaenys’ hair and shuddered at the peak of her climax, did Rhaenys abandon her cunt.

When she turned on her heels, she found Jon sitting on the throne, staring at them with a predatory look in his eyes. It made her wet and screaming on the inside for him to take her again. _I need him. In my cunt, in my ass, I do not care._

As she made her first step, Rhaenys saw her sister run past her, up the stairs to their husband. Rhaenys shared a look with Daenerys, angered Visenya selfishly ran ahead to have Jon for herself. Knowing they could exact their own sort of revenge here in the Throne Room, both held knowing smiles as they walked arm in arm to join their lovers.

“Mother! Mother! How does it look? Do you think they will like this at court?” Ashara and Viserra returned in their newly gifted silk dresses. Rhaenys thought her eleven-year-old daughters looked perfect. Ashara looked as Rhaenys remembered herself, only she inherited her father’s raven hair. Viserra stood beside her twin in a red dress with small dragon wings and dragonflame woven along her sleeves and the end of her skirt. Ashara wore something similar, only in a violet color that nearly matched her eyes.

“You look beautiful. The ladies at court will look at you with envy,” Rhaenys answered Viserra while catching Nymeria amused by her little sisters need for the approval of others. “And the boys will be chasing after you through the halls of the Red Keep,” she added, making both giggle.

“Can we show Lya and Rhae?” Ashara asked.

“Of course, go,” Rhaenys permitted her daughters’ leave. She watched both scurry out of her solar, past the couches and chairs, through the door guarded by Ser Jonothor and two household guard. By the sounds of laughter echoing from the hallway, she gathered her daughters had found their sisters.

“How do I know I will be ready?” Nymeria asked. Her eldest daughter was suddenly concerned with her future. She reminded Rhaenys of the truth, Nymeria would be gone in a few years, far away in Dorne. _I can’t tell her. I am afraid as she is._

“You can’t. I wasn’t ready to be a Queen. No one can really be ready to rule a home or a holdfast or a castle or a kingdom until they do it. Before you were born, before your father and I…I just wanted to be the Princess of Dragonstone. I wanted to host feasts and balls and be named the Queen of Love and Beauty at tourneys. Do not worry yourself. Enjoy this time while you still can. I remember how exciting it was, finding what it meant to be in love,” Rhaenys said, placing her hand over Nymeria’s.

“Perhaps I should just leave everything to Egg…,” Nymeria sunk in her seat, fearful of her future away from the safety of the Red Keep and her family.

“Nonsense. You will rule by his side. Nymeria, I cannot tell you how to rule your keep and lands with Aegon,” Rhaenys assured her daughter. _I only know of ruling as a Queen, not as a Princess._ “When the day comes and I have to watch my eldest fly for Dorne, fly for Sunspear. Visit your aunt and assure her we will not undermine her authority over the Dornish lords, as your father and I have promised. Do not seek out Arianne’s bannermen, let them come to you if they so wish. Some will be enemies, others friends, but they will all want something. We want you to further our House’s influence and power in Dorne, but you must tread carefully. Never allow yourself to be seen as the power in Dorne. Your aunt loves you and would protect you, but you are a Targaryen and she is a Martell. If lines are crossed, she has a duty to her House.”

“Aegon and I would never try to steal Dorne from her,” Nymeria vowed.

“It does not matter what you wish. Power resides where men believe it does. With Moonlight and Kios, you will have the power to burn armies and melt castles. The lords of Dorne know this. Do not involve yourself in the affairs of Dorne enough for them to see you as the Princess of Dorne,” Rhaenys cautioned, giving Nymeria a moment to consider her words.

“At least we will not be surrounded by enemies like you were when you became the Queen,” Nymeria said.

“Nymeria, you have the blood of the Rhoynar flowing through your veins, but you are a Targaryen. Some wounds, no matter how old, do not heal. There are those in Dorne that still remember Aegon and Rhaenys and Visenya. They remember Daeron. Just because your grandmother is a Martell, it does not mean they will not see you as an enemy. None of them will be brave enough to show it,” Rhaenys added, thinking of the less than loyal Dornish Houses. _I will tell her of them another day._

“How did you know, your enemies?” Nymeria asked, referring to the Bay of Dragons.

“It wasn’t difficult to know our enemies in Essos. The slavers lost what made them rich because of us. It was mercy for their families and our hope for peace that allowed them to live as long as they did. It was a mistake…I nearly lost you, and your sisters and brothers because of it. After that, I swore, never again,” Rhaenys said, remembering the attack on the Great Pyramid of Meereen and the attempted poisoning at their manse in Pentos. “Every lord, every lady, every knight, every trader, every magister, learn what they want. Learn how they have accrued their wealth and power, and how they maintain it. And for some, try to imagine the lengths they would go to keep their power or grow it. Do that and you will rarely be surprised by what they may do.”

Rhaenys turned her head at the sound of the door opening to find Visenya and Daenerys approaching with smiles on their lips. It was either something their children said or they were still pleased by their King’s efforts in the Throne Room. Before they could take the empty chairs at the table, Rhaenys continued, “More than anything, protect your children and keep them close. You are old enough to know how many lords and ladies are scheming to wed their heirs to a dragonrider.”

“Children…What if I can’t?” Nymeria asked, confusing Rhaenys. She had always thought her daughter wished to have children of her own. Nymeria was never shy to display her affections for Aegon and Rhaenys had her suspicions they were now more intimate than before.

“You do not want children?” Rhaenys asked. _Do not make the same mistake I did. Do not wait._

“I do, it’s just…Some ladies can’t. What if I am barren? What if I cannot give Aegon children? He needs an heir,” Nymeria worried like a girl of her age. Rhaenys was just thankful these worries and insecurities were never shared with those outside their family. A vulnerable princess is ripe for the manipulations and plots of others.

“You will have plenty of children, I promise. Do not worry yourself with such matters. It will be some years before you have children of your own anyways,” Rhaenys said, leading Nymeria into her trap. She could see it in her dark amethyst eyes. _She is no longer a maid or is close to no longer being one._

“What have we missed?” Visenya asked, sensing the seriousness of their conversation.

“Our daughter worries for the future. I told her she will be ready to rule her own castle when the day comes,” Rhaenys replied, carefully reading Nymeria to see if her wisdom had any effect.

“She is right, you will make a fine Princess of Fyrestone. We did not raise a fool for a daughter, did we?” Visenya encouraged Nymeria, who shook her head at such notion.

“The raven scroll?” Rhaenys inquired, nodding to the parchment in Daenerys’ hand.

“I’ll leave,” Nymeria said, standing from her chair as if she did not belong. They were involving the children more and more in meetings and discussions only shared with their closest advisors. Rhaenys did not see why her eldest should be absent from whatever news Daenerys brought with her.

“No, stay,” Daenerys told Nymeria before she could. “The raven is from Casterly Rock. Lord Jaime sends his regards and he plans to attend the King’s Tourney.”

“He’s not coming alone. Lady Jeyne and the children are coming with him,” Visenya added, surprising Rhaenys for a reason should could not explain. Jaime wed Lady Jeyne Marbrand shortly after the war in the North. Jeyne was a beautiful woman only a year older than herself with blue eyes and brown hair. Her first husband had died fighting Robb Stark in the Riverlands and she beared him no children.

Rhaenys was glad to hear Jaime finally had a child of his own a year after the Battle of Winterfell. Since then, he had two more. _I pray the children are closer to Tommen and Myrcella, sweet and weak. Jason was a kind boy, but it has been two years. And Cerelle and Tya, who can say? They were so little._

“Does he mean to betroth Jason to Allyria? Or Vaella or Alysanne?” Nymeria asked with a hint of anger. Her children did not think highly of House Lannister to say the least, especially the oldest. Nymeria was a little girl, but still old enough to understand all those years ago the Lannisters were their enemy. Rhaenys guessed it was because young minds were easily impressed upon and her hatred for Cersei had painted all the Lannisters with the same brush in the eyes of her children.

“No, we spoke at great lengths about many things at Casterly Rock. A betrothal between a Lannister and a Targaryen was not one of them. Jaime will wed Jason to a girl from one of the western Houses. The Westerlands still need to heal and rebuild, much like the Riverlands and Stormlands. His time will be spent securing House Lannister’s hold on the Westerlands and that starts with marriage,” Rhaenys replied, thinking on the day they arrived at Casterly Rock. She sat with Jaime for hours on a terrace with a gorgeous view of the Sunset Sea. _He looked happy, for once, free from the poison of Cersei._

“The Riverlords will not look kindly on his presence,” Nymeria stated the obvious.

“Nor the North or Stormlands,” Visenya added.

“It is a good thing then their opinions do not matter. This is our tourney,” Rhaenys voiced her thoughts on the matter, unconcerned by grudges that simply would not die.

“A shame Cersei made enemies of the Faith, Jaime would have been useful,” Daenerys alluded to their coming conflict with the Starry Sept and House Hightower.

“Even if that were so, Jaime has many talents, but deceit is not one of them,” Rhaenys replied. _Jaime is a soldier, a knight of the Kingsguard. They would see through his lies in such a plot._

“Nevertheless, there is something to be gained by his presence. Torrhen, perhaps Robb and Maekar, could befriend Jason. They aren’t that much older than him and he could look up to them,” Daenerys mused, knowing just as well as Rhaenys they needed to continue House Targaryen’s peace with Casterly Rock beyond their reign.

“And Daeron?” Nymeria asked.

“I’m not so sure…Your brother does not always get along with others,” Daenerys admitted with some sorrow. No matter how hard they tried, Daeron did not make friends easily. He was a highly competitive prince in the training yard who had little patience for those less talented than himself who were not his blood. And everyone was less talented than Daeron at his age.

“Should we be making friends with any certain ladies from the Westerlands?” Nymeria asked.

“The tourney is still moons away. Things may change, but no. I want you and your sisters to enjoy this tourney. Make the most of it. There will not be one like it for years, but understand there are those that mean us harm. Do not do anything foolish and do not fall for some lordling’s tricks,” she advised her eldest daughter.

“Mother, I love Aegon. How could you think?” Nymeria looked more offended than she had ever seen her.

“Good,” she placed her hand over her daughter’s, assuring her she had no doubt in their love. _I still needed to warn her. How many princesses and ladies have fallen for some evil boy’s manipulations in the past?_ “I hope Jon or Aegon win the tourney. It would be a travesty if the Queen of Love and Beauty was not a princess.”

“Nymeria!” Arya called out from the door. “Are you coming?”

“Go, there is nothing of importance we have left to speak of,” she encouraged her daughter, seeing the conflict in her eyes. Nymeria was reluctant, but joined her sister and disappeared down the hallway. There would be a time for her to assume her duties as a Princess of House Targaryen, but Rhaenys knew she was still just a girl of fourteen years. _I pray they do not learn what it means to truly rule for several more years._

**Prince Jon Targaryen**

With great care, Jon led the way through the ever-tightening path that went deeper and deeper into the caves of Dragonstone. The sound of the rising tides crashing into shore was fading. Soon enough, all he could hear was his boots hitting the damp stone beneath his feet and the flickering torch in his left hand.

When they found the paintings from the Children of the Forest, Jon realized how cold it was inside the caves, even in summer. The cold air reminded him what it felt like to stand north of the Neck. He knew he would have to endure far worse in winter, when he would take his seat at Winterhall. As his thoughts went to House Targaryen’s northern castle, he felt Dany squeeze his hand.

The warm touch of her skin was enough for him to forget the cold of the cave and the North. Dany would always be there, at his side to keep him warm. She was his sister, princess, and lover. He felt a great sense of pride knowing she would be his wife and it was not because they were betrothed. She loved him as much as he loved her. Their devotion was pure and nothing could ever come between them.

“I think we have come far enough,” Jon said, halting beneath the paintings of the Night King and the White Walkers. There likeness here was not as terrifying as the few paintings displayed in the Red Keep or Dragonstone, but he still found it unnerving. _Best ignore it. She would laugh if I suggested we go somewhere else._

“Afraid to go further?” Dany teased him with a mischievous look on her face. She was never afraid of anything. For as long as he could remember, Dany was brave and sweet. Like their older sister Arya, she was quick to pick up the sword and fight with their brothers. Jon could still remember the day she climbed onto Vyraxes without any hesitation or fear.

“No,” he laughed, digging his torch into a crevice to keep the walls around them illuminated. “If we go any further, we are likely to freeze.”

“Then come keep your Princess warm,” Dany invited him. He was never going to deny her and moved quickly to capture her lips. While he was focused on her sweet taste and the feeling of her smooth silver hair passing through his fingers, he heard his sword belt clatter to the ground. Jon had no time to react before Dany’s hands were pulling down his breeches.

Unlike their first time, neither fumbled with their hands or felt nervous undressing the other. Since the first night he feasted on her cunt and felt Dany’s beautiful lips around his cock, they had found plenty of practice. They had almost turned it into a game, trying to find a new place they could please one another. One night, she pleasured him atop the ramparts by the sea, another in a random solar inside the Stone Drum. Other nights, Jon did everything he could to make her cry his name. One time, it was in the library, another in the godswood, and the time they were almost caught with Dany splayed across the Painted Table.

“Gods Dany!” Jon inhaled a deep breath as she licked his cock from root to stem. To make things worse, she looked at him with her seductive violet eyes and teased his slit with the tip of her tongue. Jon knew if he was not careful, he would cum too early for her like he had their first time.

Jon tried to focus on anything else so he could last, but his sister had other ideas. Dany’s tongue was soon swirling around his cock. She knew him well, too well. He felt a sharp pain at the back of his head, realizing he had accidently leaned back too quickly into the cave wall. However painful it could have been, Dany was the cure as she took half his length in her mouth.

“Dany…,” he wanted to tell her he loved her, but the best he could do was grab a fistful of silver hair and guide her pace. Jon thought he had triumphed, lasting longer than he expected. The feeling was short-lived when Dany released his cock with the loud pop of her lips. He reached for his length to finish, but Dany stopped him, diving back down to swallow his seed. She did not need to and he did not ask her, but she did anyway.

Jon thought the right thing to do would be to refuse her, but he succumbed to his own selfishness. He thought girls did not like the taste, but Dany never shied away from tasting him.

“Mmm, my Prince,” Dany hummed, licking her lips like she had just finished a fine Arbor gold.

“You didn’t have to,” Jon said, hating himself for not stopping her. He never wanted her to feel like she needed to do anything she did not want to.

“I wanted to,” Dany said, pulling off his doublet. “Some ladies do not like it, but I do. Now stop standing there and help me undress, I want to scream until your name echoes through the cave.” 

“Dany…,” he warned her. They had managed to escape the confines of Dragonstone undetected, or so he thought. Jon did not want them to chance their luck. Between the Unsullied, Targaryen household guard, and the Dothraki, the island was well patrolled. The last thing he needed was for them to be found out. _Father would kill me._

“You better get to work,” Dany said, slowly undoing the laces at her back. She wore a sleeveless top fit for travelling and days away from court, as she preferred. The fashion was more common in Essos and very similar to the clothes their mothers wore when they were just children across the Narrow Sea.

Heeding her suggestion, he stepped in to help Dany get out of her clothes. While he untied the laces on her back, she discarded her boots. Once her top was bare for him, he felt tempted to turn her around and worship her growing breasts. Instead, he let his fingers trace down her spine, through her long silver hair that fell down her back like a waterfall. When he reached her breeches, Jon slowly pulled them down to find she left her chambers without smallclothes. _Seven hells._

With her grey breeches pooled at her feet, Jon knelt before her, forgetting her breasts and seizing the moment to feel her ass in his hands. He took his time, slowly kneading each cheek before leaving kisses on both. There wasn’t an inch of her skin he would not cherish and love.

Jon could have kept on as they were until morning, but Dany wanted more and he could not blame her. She leaned against the wall, bending over so he could see her perfect cunt waiting for him. He did not feel worthy. Her petals were glistening, for him.

One sway of her hips was enough to draw him in. With both hands on the back of her thighs, he spread her legs a little wider for the access he needed. Now bent over and naked as her first nameday for him, Jon leaned in to trace his tongue from the skin between her rosebud and lips to the bottom of her petals. Dany smelled and tasted like desire. She was an addiction he never wanted to be rid of.

A soft whimper escaped Dany’s lips when he flicked her nub. To his delight, her whimpers and pleas for more continued. She was now his to please and he thought himself somewhat of an expert on the matter. It had been over a moon since he first fingered her and, in that time, his sister had shown him where and how he could make her see stars as she put it.

When Dany first showed him how she liked it, Jon felt ashamed and embarrassed. He truly knew nothing. He was a Prince of House Targaryen and nearly a man grown, but he quickly learned he knew nothing about pleasing a woman. As he lapped her folds now, he understood what she did for him. Dany did not laugh at him or think lesser of him. She showed him what she wanted and had the patience for him to become a practiced lover. _I will surprise her when I take her maidenhead. I will make sure I am not a disappointment when that night comes._

Dany’s nonsensical High Valyrian did something to him. It made him want her more, if that was possible. Her voice and her sobs played like a beautiful song in his ears and Jon dove his tongue further into her cunt. He wanted all of her for himself and demanded it from himself. He would make her scream. And scream she did, when he lapped furiously at her folds and clit.

It was the shudder passing through her legs and the final cry of his name that told Jon he had made her cum. Her legs grew weak, but he held her, not wanting her to collapse. Dany felt soft and vulnerable as he listened to her heavy breaths, gasping for air. Jon felt a sense of pride and love, for she was always the strong-willed and stubborn princess that never allowed herself to be seen as vulnerable. Only with him.

Jon meant to lay down with her in his arms as they always did, but dark thoughts and a plan full of risks crossed his mind. He knew he may ruin this, but he had once heard women liked it. Dany always told him she trusted him more than anyone else and he decided to take the chance.

When her thighs no longer trembled in his hands, he slowly made his way to her ass again. He greedily squeezed her cheeks before taking the leap of faith and spreading them before his tongue teased her rosebud. Jon worried when her gasp echoed through the cave, but she did not retreat.

Dany writhed and whimpered, but she stayed there. It seemed she needed a few moments to understand what he was doing and acclimate herself to this new pleasure. When she did, he felt her push against his face, wanting more. And more he gave her, not entirely sure what they were doing could be considered appropriate, even for men and women who were wed.

The whispers of doubt running through his thoughts were trampled by the sobs and High Valyrian of his sister. _If this makes her happy, it cannot be wrong. I will do anything to make her happy. This is right. I know it in my heart._

Tired and utterly spent, Jon found himself lying on a soft layer of furs they had carried with them from Dany’s chambers. The torch still illuminated the cave around them. The walls around them flickered as the flame did, showing no signs of dying. Prepared for the cold, they had brought another layer of furs with them, but Jon did not truly need them. The furs came up to their waists. They had each other to stay warm.

There was no doubting his sister was a dragon. If her silver hair and amethyst eyes did not give it away, her fiery touch did. Her skin felt aflame, keeping him warm in spite of the cooling sheen of sweat that covered them both. He prayed they would lay like this every time, with her breasts pressed against his chest and her cunt rubbing against his hip, occasionally relieving the tension that could never be extinguished from her want.

“What you did, at the end…,” Dany broke the silence after tracing invisible lines across his chest with her fingers. She sounded nervous and unsure of her next words. _Seven hells, I have ruined this. I should have asked Rhaegar or Baavo first. They would know._

“I’m sorry, I thought you liked it. It was foolish of me. It won’t happen…,” he blurted out until she laughed at him.

“I liked it. I would very much like you to do it again…only if you liked it,” Dany replied, sounding hesitant, worried he may not want to do it again.

“I like what you like,” he smiled, kissing her unbraided mane beneath his chin.

“They were more frightening when we were little,” Dany said, looking up at the paintings he stared at. “They certainly aren’t as scary as the ones in the Red Keep.”

“Aye,” Jon replied, remembering what he could from their first stay at Winterfell. The memories were hidden in the fog of his mind. He could remember his mothers being sad and Uncle Aemon. He could never forget the oldest person he ever met. Jon could also remember the army camped at Winter Town and along the Kingsroad. The tents stretched for miles.

_Father defeated the Night King and the Army of the Dead. He conquered and united Essos. He reclaimed the Iron Throne and avenged our grandfather and uncle. He avenged Uncle Ned and Uncle Lewyn. How will Rhaegar be tested? What foe will we face? How many wars will we fight in our time? Will I make Dany proud?_

“You scare me sometimes, more than Rhaegar.” Dany said with a sadness in her voice.

“What?” Jon replied, trying to understand what he and his brother had done.

“I know how much you want to make Father proud. You train harder than any of us, even Rhaegar. Even when we were little, I could see it then. Every time Father took us to the battlements, teaching us about siege warfare or battles on an open plain, you always stayed behind, asking him questions. And you always look nervous before a Small Council meeting, afraid to disappoint him or Mother,” Dany answered. He hated hearing what she had to say, but he could not deny it.

House Targaryen’s history was filled with heroes and good kings. There was Aegon the Conqueror, Jaehaerys the Conciliator, Daeron the Young Dragon, Aemon the Dragonknight, his grandfather, and his father. There was also Aenys the Weak, Maegor the Cruel, Baelor the Fool, Aegon the Unworthy, Mad King Aerys, and Viserys the Kinslayer. Jon did not want to fall anywhere close to the latter.

Even greater than his need to not be cast with the worst of their line, Jon wanted to make his father proud. He wanted to be a great warrior and wise ruler like his father. He was named for the greatest king to ever live and that burden has weighed heavily on him for as long as he could remember.

“Did Grandmother Lyanna put you up to this?” he wondered.

“No, why?” Dany responded.

“Nothing…She said the same thing, in not so many words,” Jon said, deciding to trust his sister.

“If you won’t listen to me, listen to her,” Dany argued, glaring at him like she would strangle him if he did not follow her wish.

“I will not lessen my training or Small Council meetings, but I will try to be…less broody,” Jon admitted, having heard his mother tell him a thousand times over he brooded just like his father. _Dany sees the same._ “I love you, Dany, more than anything in this world. Without you…Gods, I do not know. I know I can be difficult and not the prince you deserve but I will do everything to make you happy. You will be my Princess of Winterhall, the most beautiful princess in the Realm.”

“You’re doing it again, thinking yourself unworthy. We came into this world together. We were always meant to be. In my heart, I know that to be a truth. I don’t want you to change. I just want you to allow yourself to live without the pressure and the weight of the name our mother gave you. You will be Prince Jon of House Targaryen, the first Prince of Winterhall. You will earn your own songs and tales. Together, we can be happy. I want to give you sons and daughters with swords in their hands riding through the Wolfswood with a pack of direwolves and flying over the Wall atop fearsome dragons. Gods, you see what you have done? I sound like Lya or Rhae with their songs and dreams.”

“Aye, you do,” Jon laughed with her, hoping he would see that smile every day until his last. For such a hard princess whose sword struck as true as the strongest knight, Jon thought there was nothing as sweet as her smile. “But I like it. You meant it and there is no shame in that.”

Jon was ready to say more, ready to compliment every little thing about Dany until dawn, when the castle awoke, but Dany had other ideas. His sister straddled him and leaned down to conquer his lips, thrusting her hips into his. He could feel her wet cunt against his muscles as his hands roamed her body. They both wanted each other. More than anything, he wanted to be inside her and take her maidenhead, but they promised one another. _I will wait, when the time is perfect and a place more befitting her._

**Princess Visenya Targaryen**

Senya found the cool waters of Blackwater Bay soothing on this sweltering summer day. The sky was a clear blue without a cloud in sight. She always thought it curious the heat from fires did not bother her or anyone else in House Targaryen for that matter, but a warm summer day could.

As she knelt in the waist-high waters several hundred feet from shore, she could still see Stormfyre lingering on the beach, waiting to return to Dragonstone. Her black and grey scaled dragon had carried herself and her two sisters to the secluded island a mile off the coast of Driftmark. Senya thought it was better described as a rock, but its beaches were fine and stretched far into the sea. Her Velaryon cousins had told Rhaegar and Arya of its existence. They knew these waters well and any captain from Driftmark knew well to keep their ships from running aground in these shallow waters.

When Senya laid her head back into the calm waters and allowed her hair to become wet, she wished Eddard were with her as she stared into the sky, expecting to see Sonar flying overhead. Her brother never came and probably for the better. Naerys and Daenys were with her and they were even more timid than herself. _They would not like Eddard seeing them naked as their first nameday, not now._

With her arms spread and her eyes closed, floating in the Blackwater, Senya imagined her wedding ceremony. It was beneath a weirwood tree, but she did not see Winterfell. This weirwood was foreign to her. Senya dreamed of the life she would share with Eddard at Summerhall. They would rule their own castle and lands. They would have princes and princesses running through the gardens and godswood. She would teach them to swim in the lake and how to claim a dragon of their own. _Stormfyre and Sonar only need to lay the eggs._

It was hard to tell, but Senya thought she heard her name called from shore. When she opened her eyes and stood on her feet again, she saw Daenys and Naerys swimming ashore. Deciding she would join them, Senya waded through the waters, letting the small waves splash against her back until it was shallow enough and her knees rose above the surface.

“Already tired of swimming?” Senya asked, feeling her long silver hair sticking to her back.

“I think we have been here for at least an hour,” Daenys replied, sitting next to Naerys in the sand where the tide came to their feet. _Has it been that long?_

Senya settled between her sisters, letting the sun dry off the cold droplets of water on her skin. The cool breeze rolling past was a welcome reprieve along with the rising tide inching past her feet in the hardened sand. From where they sat, Senya could see High Tide’s narrow towers built of pale stone in the distance.

“Thank you for taking us on Stormfyre,” Daenys said truthfully. It was not an empty gesture from her little sister. Nothing ever was from Daenys or Naerys. _They have good hearts, sometimes too good._

“You do not need to thank me, sister,” Senya replied.

“I wish we had dragons of our own,” Naerys admitted with a certain sadness and what Senya thought was shame. _She is the blood of the dragon. She must know it._

“You will, I know it. Both of you will have dragons one day. If Stormfyre hatches a clutch of eggs, I shall give you each one myself,” Senya swore.

“What about Valarr?” Daenys asked, concerned for her twin brother she sought, but never had the courage to claim.

“Valarr and Aemon and the rest of our brothers and sisters will have dragons one day,” Senya said, smiling to herself. She knew the terror that would cause in the skies of the Crownlands.

“There have never been so many dragons,” Naerys stated, doubtfully.

“There were in Old Valyria,” Senya countered, hoping her sister would have faith like their mother had. _The Mother of Dragons. We can be mothers of dragons._ “The dragons were gone from this world, until mother and father. Now there are twelve. There were no direwolves south of the Wall either. Have faith, sweet sister.”

“Aemon has his doubts. He is so smart and he said he had read a book by Archmaester…I can’t remember his name, but he said it will not be,” Naerys went on until Senya decided she would hear no more of it.

“Aemon is not as smart as you think,” Senya proclaimed, displeased by her brother’s faith in the words of some old archmaester from the Citadel. _They are no different than other men. They can tell lies. Otherwise, why would our father and mothers involve themselves in the affairs of the Citadel?_

“But he is,” Naerys defended her twin and love.

“Has he kissed you?” Senya asked with a raised eyebrow.

“What?” Naerys nearly mumbled with sad eyes and a quivering chin. Senya could see she had wounded her sister. A dagger had been placed in her heart, but Senya knew it needed to be done.

“You heard me,” Senya demanded an answer.

“No,” Naerys said with blurred eyes. Senya could see the tears ready to spill out if she pushed her sister further.

“Then he is not smart. In fact, he is quite dull if he cannot see what is right in front of him,” Senya said, moving a strand of hair sticking to Naerys’ temple.

“I think he wants to become a maester. Maesters cannot marry. They can’t…,” Naerys expressed her fear they were all too familiar with.

“Do not let him. You are a dragon. Be a dragon. Our brother is a dragon as well, is he not?” Senya said, waiting for Naerys to nod her head. “A Targaryen alone in this world is a terrible thing. A dragon needs another dragon. You both do not realize the power you hold.”

“Valarr wants to be a knight of the Kingsguard. He has told me a hundred times. It has been his dream since we were little. I don’t want to take away his dream,” Daenys spoke up, realizing Senya was speaking to her as well.

“You love him, right? And Valarr loves you? He would do anything for you, he would die for you. That is love, Daenys. He may not know it, but you mean more to him than any white cloak or the honors that come with it,” Senya turned to her other sister.

“How do we…?” Daenys asked nervously.

“Tell them you love them,” Senya advised. _That’s how it was for Eddard and I._ She still held the memory close to her heart. They had both confessed their love to one another in her bedchambers one night. She had finally mustered her own courage to go to Eddard, but found him waiting at her door.

“We have,” Naerys said with frustration.

“They’re too foolish to know what you truly meant. Explain it to them or just steal them away and kiss them,” Senya suggested.

“I’ve never been kissed before…What if I am not any good? What if I ruin it?” Naerys asked.

“Aemon and Valarr haven’t kissed anyone either. Trust me, you both will be better at it than them,” Senya smirked, remembering how quickly Eddard improved as a kisser.

“How do you know?” Daenys asked timidly.

“Girls always are,” Senya responded. _I think. Mayhaps I have it all wrong, but I will not tell you that._

“Is there anything else we can do?” Naerys asked, sounding almost desperate now that she was confronted on the matter of her love for Aemon.

“Well…You can dress differently,” Senya felt like a hypocrite. Her sisters shied away from Dornish and Essosi dresses like herself. She never needed to reveal more skin than she wished to invite Eddard into her arms. “Aemon and Valarr may take their eyes off their books and swords if they see you in Essosi dresses. And if that doesn’t work, do this.”

“This?” Daenys furrowed her brow in confusion.

“Take them for a swim. They will see you and you will see them. Trust me, if our brothers were here now, they would be on their knees worshipping you at your feet. You are no longer little girls now and they will see that,” Senya answered, amazed she had to explain this to them. Naerys and Daenys had the classical Valyrian features like herself. Senya never spoke of her own beauty, but she was not oblivious to the fact.

“Has Eddard seen you?” Daenys asked.

“Of course, I love him and he loves me. We have done more than see each other,” she decided to tell her little sisters.

“Don’t you worry he will get you with child?” Daenys responded.

“No, we haven’t done that, not yet,” Senya laughed, wondering to herself when that day would come. A faint whisper told her soon, but she wasn’t so sure. _Has he been waiting for me or I for him? If Eddard asked, I would give him my maidenhead this night or any night after._

“What have you done?” Naerys asked. It was then she realized she had never spoken to either of them regarding such matters and neither had any of her sisters.

“Well, he does this thing with his tongue…,” Senya decided she would not allow her sisters to walk around without such wisdom any longer. Someone had to do it. It just surprised Senya it was herself. She would have guessed Nymeria or Arya or even Dany to be the ones to tell them.

“Senya! Come here,” she heard her father call from the high table on the dais. She was unsure if she was in trouble or her father simply wished to speak with her. Her mothers’ seats were empty, as they were at various tables in the Great Hall sitting with advisors and guests.

Senya acknowledged her father and stood from the table, abandoning the venison, apples, and lemon cakes to join him. Arya and Dany made sure to give her the knowing look she gave them when they had been caught in some mischievous plot. Their looks cut like daggers to her pride. She was always in her parents’ good graces and held it over her sisters when she needed to.

Relief washed over her face when she found her father smiling as she took her mother’s seat beside him. Senya rarely saw her father angry and rarely with herself or her sisters. When he was, she and her sisters always knew how to get out of trouble. _We are his weakness. He would do anything for us._

“You and your sisters flew alone,” he stated, worrying her. Her father must have sensed her nervousness and placed his calloused hand over hers on the table. “I am not mad at you. Your mother would kill me for telling you, but there were plenty of times we snuck away without any guards. Just, next time, try to fly with another dragon.” _He is overprotective. As if Stormfyre were not enough to frighten any danger off._

“I will Father, I promise,” Senya did not lie. She could never lie to him. Senya could if she wanted. She had him wrapped around her finger, but it was always him she ran to when she was little. Whatever she was crying over, he would hold her in his arms and tell her everything would be alright, and it always was. He never lied to her and she would honor that.

“Your aunt told me you have been taking Ella with you on Stormfyre,” her father said. Senya had not kept count, but it must have been six or seven times now she had flown her little cousin around Dragonstone. Stormfyre took well to Ella’s presence as long as she was around.

“She is brave for a stag,” Senya said, looking to little Argella now perched between Dany and Arya at the table she had just left.

“Mayhaps it is the wolfsblood in her,” her father jested, gracing her with his smile and laughter. She had once heard a hedge knight from the Crownlands jest her father never smiled and that confused her until she started to pay close attention to him at court. The knight had the right of it. Her father saved his smiles and laughter for their family and a few close friends. “She reminds me of her mother at that age.”

“She asked me to teach her how to swing a sword. I told her she should ask Dany or Arya. I know she is still too little, but I did not have the heart to tell her,” Senya replied.

“Your Aunt will have her besting the little lords in the yard in a few years,” her father laughed to himself. Senya did not doubt him, spotting her aunt and uncle at one of the tables below with her grandmothers and Queen Visenya. _I wonder how many in Westeros truly know how dangerous Aunt Arya actually is._

“I’ve been meaning to speak with you. After the King’s Tourney, we will ride for Summerhall. And as the future Princess of Summerhall, your mothers and I think it appropriate you speak with the steward and castellan of your castle,” her father said. Senya felt herself brimming with joy, realizing what her father was saying. “I do not expect for you and Eddard to wed soon, but I do not think it would hurt if you made your own changes to the castle. Speak with your brother and decide what you want changed. Nothing too dramatic.”

“Thank you, Father,” Senya leapt into his arms, kissing him on the cheek before wrapping her arms around his neck. “Can I make changes to the gardens and the grand solar?”

“As I said, change whatever you wish, as long as it is within reason,” her father said as she finally let him go. _I pray he does not think I would waste gold on a new keep or some grand tower._

“Have you told Eddard?” she asked, looking to her brother speaking with Rhaegar and Aegon over horns of ale.

“I will leave that honor to you,” he said. “Go, tell your brother. He’ll be glad to see you this happy.”

“Thank you, Father. This means everything,” Senya said, taking her leave. When she gathered her skirts, taking her leave, she tried to calm herself and slow her steps as she made her way to Eddard. As she neared the table filled with her brothers and sisters, she glanced back at her father, silently thanking him again. She thought she should express her gratitude more, knowing her thanks were simply not enough.

“You look happy,” Eddard noted, setting his horn of northern ale upon the table. Senya did not know what overcame her, but she placed her hands gently on his neck and sealed her lips with his for everyone in the Great Hall to see if they were paying attention. She never liked sharing their affections in front of others, but her heart was overcome with joy. “What was that for?” Eddard let out a confused laugh.

“Father said we should speak with the steward and castellan at Summerhall after the tourney. He wants us to make changes, for us,” she said, running her fingers through Eddard’s raven curls. _I do not care who is watching. Let them._

“Does he want us to be wed soon?” Eddard asked.

“No, he just wants us to ready the castle for ourselves, when the time comes. And we cannot wed before Rhaegar and Arya,” she said, looking to her older brother and sister stealing looks at one another.

“When will that be?” Eddard asked, sounding as if he was not expecting an answer.

“I don’t know and I don’t care. I do not need a wedding to know you love me. I can wait if you can. And besides, we are still young,” Senya argued.

“Aye, I can wait if you can,” Eddard promised her, greedily taking her lips while she was willing to share their affections in the Great Hall.

**Dowager Queen Rhaella Targaryen**

Standing against the marble balustrade of the balcony outside her solar at High Tide, Rhaella kept her eyes on the passing ships. Half a dozen Velaryon war galleys were sailing past, a few miles from shore with their sea-green sails billowing in the wind. The largest of the six reminded her of the ship her lord husband had gifted her, _Queen Rhaella._

In the final year of the last winter, Rhaella had finally accepted Monford’s wish to sail the seas with him. She could still remember the first nights, spent inside her quarters, praying she would live through the storms passing through the Narrow Sea. Rhaella never wished to spend many moons away from her grandchildren and found herself cursing Monford for three nights, thinking she would drown at sea, never to see them again.

To her welcome surprise, she never regretted taking the journey with her husband. Rhaella was a Targaryen and did not share Monford’s love of the seas, but she thought she had discovered her own liking to what the seas showed her. They sailed from Blackwater Bay to the cities of Myr and Tyrosh. After sailing through the Broken Arm, Monford led their small fleet to Lys and Volantis.

Their journey allowed her to witness the fruits of her House’s wars in Essos. She visited cities liberated by Jon and Daenerys and Visenya and Rhaenys. She saw the former slaves and heard their stories. They worshipped their King and Queens. From Volantis to the Bay of Dragons, she listened to stories of the smallfolk’s lives before the dragons and understood why these people would support House Targaryen, despite her House being foreign to them.

When Monford sailed through the Smoking Sea with the fear and superstitions of a normal sailor, she thanked him many times over. It was a sweet gift she never knew she wanted. Seeing the lands of her ancestors meant more to her than she expected. Rhaella never set foot on the shores of Valyria, but just seeing was enough.

When they were finished with the former slave cities, Rhaella saw the wonders of Qarth and the beauty of the Jade Sea. There, she saw many mysterious ports and cities never heard of in Westeros. Asshai was the furthest they sailed before turning back west. The city sent a chill through her bones and as her lord husband promised, they set sail after three days anchored at port.

Their westward journey took them past the Basilisk Isles and the island of Naath. Wary of chancing their luck, Rhaella commanded Monford to turn from the shores of Sothoryos and head for Lys. After a long stay at the Targaryen manse in Lys, Monford sailed their ships across the Summer Sea and up the Sunset Sea until they reached Bear Island.

From Oldtown to Lannisport and Pyke to Bear Island and Sunspear to King’s Landing, the Velaryons sold the spices, rare animals, silks, and other rare goods acquired in eastern ports. During the time of Rhaegar’s reign and now her grandson’s, Rhaella knew Lord Monford had slowly returned House Velaryon to its former glory. High Tide and Spicetown were rebuilt under his direction. Driftmark was repaired where needed and Hull nearly doubled in size. After their one-year journey, House Velaryon without question was the second wealthiest House in the Seven Kingdoms.

“Grandmother!” her granddaughter Alyssa interrupted her memories. Rhaella turned to see the little girl with blue eyes that could match the sky and silver-gold hair that was not as fine as the silver hair of Targaryens. Alyssa was a sweet girl, ten years of age and the daughter of Monford’s eldest, Monterys.

“She has a gift for you,” Alyssa’s mother, Lady Aemma Velaryon, said with a smile on her lips. Rhaella liked Aemma and thought she made for pleasant company. She was a polite and kind hearted lady. It also helped Rhaella considered Aemma’s mother, Lady Larissa Celtigar, a dear friend. “And you as well, your Grace.”

“We found them on the road to Hull,” Alyssa offered three flowers with violet petals to herself and three more to Daenerys. “They match your eyes. Do you see?”

“Yes, I see, Alyssa,” Rhaella said, accepting the flowers before taking in their delightful smell.

“Thank you, Lady Alyssa,” Daenerys made the little girl’s day, taking her small hands in her own. “I know my daughters, Elia and Rhaella, wish to see you soon. Let us pray it is not too long before you grace us with your presence at court.”

“Father says we will sail for King’s Landing a moon before the King’s Tourney,” Alyssa responded in a cheerful tone and a smile on her face.

“Come on, let your grandmother and her Grace have their privacy,” Aemma edged the little girl away after gracing them with a perfected curtsy, learned after a childhood spent in the Crownlands.

“I like her,” Daenerys declared as they both returned their gaze to the ships on the Blackwater and Drogon flying circles over a nearby island.

“Alyssa is a sweet girl. She reminds me of my namesake,” Rhaella mused, thinking about her granddaughter. Princess Rhaella and Alyssa were the best of friends and dear cousins. “When the time comes, promise me you will use your influence to find her a suitable lord.”

“I will, she is family,” Daenerys promised. “It shouldn’t be difficult. If a lord cannot wed his daughter to a Targaryen, he will certainly try for a Velaryon.” Rhaella could not disagree with her daughter. Besides its wealth and powerful fleet, House Velaryon shared close ties to House Targaryen. _They are practically our family. It also does not hurt the ladies of my new House are almost as beautiful as my daughter and grandchildren._

“How are my grandchildren? With some of them, I never know…Do Rhaegar and Arya still pretend they are not in love?” Rhaella asked, thinking of the eldest. They reminded her of Jon and Daenerys, only she had not seen it all those years ago. _Gods, I was a fool then. How did I never see it? I do with Rhaegar and Arya._

“They are happy and growing, more and more every day,” Daenerys said of her grandchildren. “As for Rhaegar and Arya, they are doing their best to continue the mummery. A poor effort, I must say,” her daughter added with a laugh. _Rhaegar is his father’s son. I know it. He will win that tourney for Arya and present her with a crown of winter roses._

“And you? Are you happy?” Rhaella asked her daughter, praying the answer was yes.

“Of course, why would I not?” Daenerys replied with a furrowed brow, looking at her like she was a fool. She could not blame her daughter. Rhaella never knew why, but she felt compelled to ask. _It is foolish for me to ask. Jon is a good husband, unlike Aerys._

“No reason,” Rhaella answered, turning back to look out at the sea. “This business with the Hightowers, I do not wish to speak behind Monford’s back, but he will advocate for conflict. He sees this new fleet in Oldtown as a threat to his influence and you and I both know the Hightowers are one of the few who can rival House Velaryon’s wealth.”

“Thank you for telling me,” her daughter spoke after glancing over her shoulder to ensure they were alone. “But we suspected as much. I cannot blame him. He should rest assured, House Velaryon will always have a seat at the Small Council. We cannot have a Redwyne or Greyjoy serving as our Master of Ships.”

“What do you plan to do with Lord Leyton and the High Septon?” Rhaella put voice to her curiosity. Aerys had never allowed her to sit Small Council meetings and ensured she had little influence at court. Before Rhaegar’s reign, the best Rhaella could hope to do was arrange a marriage between this House and that House. There were no secrets with her son and during her grandson’s reign, she was allowed to rule. And rule well, Rhaella always thought. With Ser Jonothor Darry’s military expertise and her political acumen, the Lannisters never even dared to lay siege to Dragonstone.

“Let them plot and scheme. We will wait and listen. The Spider has his little birds and Allyria has little birds of her own,” Daenerys stated with a smirk on her lips. She could see the confidence in her daughter’s eyes. _Leyton Hightower should come to his senses before it is too late. And as for this High Septon, you have gone too far. I know my daughter and granddaughters will tolerate no more._ “We expect the raids along the Sunset Sea to continue, unless they are found by the Redwynes or Ironborn. If things escalate and the Faith begin to arm their followers, we may be forced to take action before the tourney.”

“Be sure to have extra guards around the Red Keep and the children. If any of these enemies were to discover we know and become desperate…,” Rhaella warned her daughter, holding her tongue from uttering the worst.

“Nothing will happen Mother, I swear it. Jon has already spoken with the Kingsguard, Grey Worm, and the captains of the household guard. Everything will be in order,” Daenerys said, bringing the violet flowers to her nose again. This time, Rhaella could have sworn she saw flames dancing in her daughter’s eyes as Daenerys kept her gaze on the sea. “And if anyone should think to harm my children, I will feed them to Snow if I am merciful.”

_No one has a better heart than you, my sweet daughter, but I know you would not be merciful. You would see those who mean to harm your children burn. You have seen such enemies burn. Meereen. Volantis. Braavos._

“Forgive me, Mother. Dark words for such a beautiful day,” Daenerys apologized. “Would you like to join me? Drogon will fly easy and gracefully, I promise.”

“Not today. I have many things to see to,” Rhaella told her daughter with some regret. A part of her wished for her own dragon, even at her old age, but she would not claim one as long as she had grandchildren without dragons of their own. For now, she was content with flights on Drogon or Rhaegal or Moonlight. “Go, give the family my love. I should see you when we return to King’s Landing.”

Her daughter responded with a warm embrace. Rhaella did not want to let go. It was Drogon’s roar in the sky above High Tide that bid her daughter’s farewell. She stayed on her balcony, watching Daenerys cross the empty solar. A handful of Velaryon guards could be seen outside the lord’s chambers, waiting to escort her outside the castle and to the black-scaled dragon.

“If I had known, I would have stayed. I could have ridden for Hull on the morrow,” Monford said as Rhaella sat in front of dressing table with her wardrobe. She peered into the looking glass, looking for signs of her age. The first wrinkles were the worst, hitting her heart like small daggers, even if they had come years after ladies of her age. _Am I still beautiful in his eyes?_

Rhaella believed Monford still thought her his beautiful lady. He still treated her as she expected a loving husband would. His eyes never betrayed her, lingering on younger women. And he had certainly never visited a brothel or called a whore to his chambers. She had enough spies of her own to know that for a fact.

“Do not fret. Daenerys only wished to speak with me about the grandchildren and other matters men do not care for. How goes the progress on the new ships?” Rhaella replied as slipped one ring after another off her fingers. She began to place each carefully in the velvet lined jewelry box encrusted with sigils of House Targaryen and House Velaryon, a gift from Rhaenys.

“The carracks are nearly finished. They just need some work on the masts, a bit of finishing below deck, and good sails to take them far. Gods, you should have seen them. We will soon have enough to form a fleet that can sail farther and faster than any fleet the Seven Kingdoms has seen,” Monford boasted with great pride. She couldn’t help but feel happy for him. Rhaella could never love the sea as much as her husband, but she loved him enough to feel something of a similar joy for his accomplishment.

After the three-year winter, Monford gathered his captains and shipbuilders at Castle Driftmark. There, they spent a fortnight planning and designing the future of House Velaryon. Her lord husband had hundreds of war galleys that could defeat any foe on the Narrow Sea, but there were kingdoms beyond the Narrow Sea with ships built to voyage past the Summer Isles and beyond the Jade Sea. These new carracks would allow the Velaryon and Targaryen fleets to sail in force to seas unknown if required.

“Faster than any fleet the world has ever seen,” she corrected Monford as she plucked out the pins in her hair, letting the silver fall to her shoulders.

“You are right. You always are,” her husband said huskily as he pulled her to their bed. The summer air was warm enough for her to wear a light chemise to bed, but the winds were just cool enough to prevent Rhaella from awaking to a sheen of sweat covering her body.

It was not until she settled into the silk sheets of her feathered bed that Rhaella realized how tired she was. After Daenerys had left, she sought out their steward and went over the accounts. With Aemma’s assistance, she made plans for all the feasts for the next moon at High Tide. When Monford returned to the castle with his sons and grandsons, they gathered in the Great Hall for a feast with the captains serving their House.

While Monford and Monterys recounted sailor’s tales and myths, Rhaella hosted the wives of the sea captains. She endured the dreadful and pleasant alike, with a warm smile and queenly voice that could win the loyalties of most ladies. Even if she grew tired of such affairs, Rhaella admitted to herself holding court at High Tide was far easier than receiving lords and ladies at the Red Keep. _Sometimes I pity Daenerys. Just being the Lady of Driftmark can be easier than a Queen of the Seven Kingdoms._

“Will you ride with me to Spicetown on the morrow?” Monford whispered, wrapping an arm around her as she laid on her side, ready to fall asleep with a view of the dark indigo sky painted with stars outside their bedchambers.

“Am I needed?” Rhaella replied, resettling herself into her soft pillow.

“No, I just wanted you with me, that is all. I need to inspect some of our war galleys and trading cogs. I think some of these younger captains are not their fathers. They let their ships fall into disrepair if the old are not there to remind them,” Monford said, forcing her to roll her eyes. _The old always say the same about the young._ “After, I mean to walk the fish market and see the shops and the alehouses and the inns.”

“I will go,” she said.

“You don’t…,” he started.

“I want to. It is good for a Queen to walk the streets and be seen. She must listen to her subjects and speak with the smallfolk. It is no different for a Lady,” Rhaella reasoned.

“You may be the Lady of Driftmark, but you still are a Queen,” Monford whispered against her ear before leaving a kiss on her neck. “You are my Queen.”

They were just words, but they made her happy. Rhaella learned long ago she could count on Monford to remind her why she accepted his hand in marriage. Unlike Aerys, Monford did and said the right things that made her heart flutter like an innocent maid. Monford taught her there were still honorable men to be found in Westeros. Fortunately for her, it was her hand he sought and no others.

_When Rhaella closed her eyes, she dreamt of a black knight with a lance on a black courser. She saw a struggle between two ladies, but their faces escaped her. She felt the warmth of a small, silver dragon in her arms. And finally, she saw the King and Queens waiting to deliver the King’s justice._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long wait. There should only be one more chapter on Dragonstone before the return to King's Landing unless the writing leads to more. There will be fewer mentions of the tourney in future chapters until it actually takes place.
> 
> I think Fyrestone works as the name of Aegon & Nymeria's castle in Dorne. I still have not decided what will be on Visenya's Hill. Rarely do this, but I am open to input for ideas for Visenya's Hill.
> 
> Again, please leave any questions, criticisms, suggestions, comments, etc. below. Also, should I post an appendix for the Targaryen Ascendancy Series? I know the names, ages, appearances can be overwhelming with the number of original characters I have written. If you do want me to post an appendix, please tell me the information you want in it.


	5. New Flames

**King Jon Targaryen**

They would be leaving Dragonstone for King’s Landing before the next moon and Jon thought it wise to let the smallfolk of the Port of Dragonstone to see their King. With him came his Queens, nearly half his children, all of the Kingsguard save Brienne of Tarth and Ser Jonothor Darry, one hundred Unsullied, and fifty Targaryen household guard. Jon felt his family was safer on Dragonstone than any other place in Westeros or Essos, but this visit was announced and known to the entire town the day before.

When their column came down the road leading to Dragons’ Square, Jon saw the Unsullied lined in perfect formation on either side of the street, preventing the smallfolk from blocking the way or a hidden assassin from striking out at himself or one of his family. Jon did not know all of their names, but he recognized many of the faces watching him ride past their homes.

Many of the Dothraki were part of the khalasar he and Daenerys had claimed in Pentos. Aggo and Jhogo vowed to never return to the Great Grass Sea without their Khal and Khaleesis. He could still remember telling the Dothraki that day would never come and a few thousand still remained, taking Dragonstone for their new home. These people had followed him from Pentos to Vaes Dothrak to Qarth and back to Pentos and finally crossing the Narrow Sea. _They would follow us to Sothoryos if we wished to take it._

The Westerosi standing outside their doors and looking out onto the cobbled street from their small balconies were also well known to him and his family. He knew the owners of the alehouses, the town’s blacksmith, the two dozen captains who called the port home, the innkeeper, and all the rest by name. Many of the shopkeepers and traders were running their establishments before his father’s reign had even begun.

Jon never liked the adoration he had received as the Prince of Summerhall and it was even worse as King. It was his name the people chanted and cried out first. They had all heard the story of the Battle of Winterfell and they called him a hero. Jon did not think himself a hero nor a great king. Considering the smallfolk’s worship for him and his Queens, Jon was grateful they did not call Essos home. If they did, he would have to deal with the followers of R’hllor, who thought the Targaryens the greatest of the Lord of Light’s servants. Some even thought him to be their god, wearing the flesh of a man.

Despite the displeasure of it all, Jon forced a well-practiced smile and waved to his most loyal subjects. They deserved that much and he would not abandon his duty to his House. They needed the smallfolk almost as much as the smallfolk needed them. House Targaryen had done well to make allies with most of the lords of the Realm, but it was the smallfolk’s love for his House that ensured the king’s peace and dissuaded most of the dissenting Houses from raising any armies.

After years of rebuilding the broken and burnt Riverlands, Jon knew they had mended relations with lords and smallfolk alike who had expected his return to Westeros far sooner than it came. If any rebellions were to arise in his reign, he did not think it would start in the Riverlands. A war to overthrow House Targaryen would come from the Iron Islands, the Westerlands, or parts of the Reach where the Faith still held a strong influence.

Jon did not worry too much regarding the potential for another Ironborn rebellion. The Iron Islands and its Houses were still weakened from the Battle of the Gullet. The dragons had burned thousands and it would take some years for them to regain their fighting numbers. Even if the Houses who had nearly lost everything in the war thought to raid the western shores, Jon trusted Yara Greyjoy to crush any who would claim the salt throne. And if she failed, Jon would burn the Iron Islands until the stone of their keeps looked like molten candles should Visenya not do it first.

The Westerlands were another lesser concern, but a concern nonetheless. Jon trusted Rhaenys and she trusted Jaime Lannister, Lord of Casterly Rock and Warden of the West. It left a bitter taste in his mouth, rewarding Jaime with a lordship and not dragonfire, but the knight had saved Rhaenys and saved himself in the snows outside Winterfell. Because of his mistrust of anyone with the name Lannister, Jon instructed Varys to send many of his little birds to the Westerlands. Every castle, holdfast, or town of any significance had at least one of their spies to watch for signs of treachery.

Oldtown and pockets of the Reach posed the greatest risk of disturbing the peace that had fallen over the Seven Kingdoms since Jon and his Queens had reclaimed the Iron Throne. The Reach was the most populous of the kingdoms and the Faith was still strong there. Winter did not allow the septons or the most pious of followers to tend to their hatred of House Targaryen, but winter was over. This was summer and the Faith of the Seven grew bolder every moon with sermons declaring his House’s practice of incest and marriage to more than one wife as the worst of sins.

Jon felt a conflict coming and planned to take advantage of it. _They will misstep and overreach. We will be waiting and when they do, we will take all of their power. The High Septon and his allies will turn to the smallfolk, but they will find we have a better tale to tell. House Targaryen has more to offer the people than the Seven. The Starry Sept and the septs that answer to the Most Devout will have nothing._

“Those who do not know you would think you are enjoying this,” Daenerys spoke quietly so only he could hear. Her words made his false smile true. His wife had the right of it and he could not deny it.

“I like seeing old faces. I feared many of them would abandon us on the road to Vaes Dothrak. I was so unsure then. How long has it been, sixteen years since we rode through the Forest of Qohor? It does not seem so long ago,” Jon mused, remembering when he was simply a prince and a khal, even if being a khal wasn’t so simple. It took him many moons to understand the Dothraki’s way and even longer to perfect their tongue, far longer than Daenerys. _We were lucky. If it weren’t for the dragons, would the others have followed us?_

“I was sure. I believed in you,” Daenerys replied with a smile before turning to wave at a group of girls no older than Vaella or Alysanne calling her name. His Queens had that effect on the girls across the Seven Kingdoms, a lesson he learned on their first royal progress through the Stormlands.

“You always did,” Jon said, silently thanking Daenerys for just being herself. He prayed she would never change. She was willful, stubborn, sweet, caring, motherly, beautiful, and intelligent. Jon hoped she would always remain his Dany just as he hoped Visenya would remain his Senya and Rhaenys his Rhae.

“Viserra came to us this morning, while you were sparring…she has been having these dreams,” Daenerys paused with a concerned look in her eyes. Daenerys began to worry him when she said nothing. When he looked for his daughter, it was impossible to find her amongst the riders behind them. His own worries were cured by the smile forming on Daenerys’ lips. “She’s been dreaming of dragons for several moons now.”

“That does not mean anything,” Jon spoke to deaf ears. Daenerys was not religious nor a believer in magics, but he knew she would believe Viserra’s dreams were of significance. Jon could remember Daenerys’ dreams of dragons and the flames of Vaes Dothrak from which they were brought into the world. Jon wasn’t sure Viserra could stand amongst the flames, but he knew he never wanted find out. Every time one of his children snuck a hand into a fire, he held his breath and scorned them after finding each of them unburnt.

“Your Queens know better. We were destined to return dragons to this world and our children have that same destiny. They were born to be dragonriders and have dragons of their own,” Daenerys proclaimed with such confidence. It was the same confidence she had when they were so young and why he fell in love with her at Winterfell.

“You are beginning to sound like Kinvara or Melisandre,” Jon dared, striking a nerve with his wife. He could see the violet flames dancing in her eyes, ready to consume him in her sudden rage. Daenerys had never spoken ill of Melisandre after the war and offered the red priestess a place in their court, an offer she refused. The comparison to Kinvara was the source of Daenerys’ displeasure.

Neither of them trusted Kinvara. From the moment their paths crossed at Qohor, Jon and Daenerys were skeptical of the red priestess’ praise and pledges of assistance. Kinvara’s words were always laced with dark omens and even darker fates for those she considered sinners. Jon was glad the High Priestess of the Temple of the Lord of Light had stayed in Volantis. R’hllor and red priestesses were the last thing he needed to complicate tensions with the Faith of Seven in Westeros.

“My King is fortunate we are not alone,” Daenerys warned him with pursed lips and a raised eyebrow. Jon was unsure if her tone was playful or dangerous, but he wanted have her either way. “And you have had these dreams, do not deny it. You always told me of dreams filled with dragons and direwolves.”

“Is there a Targaryen that has not dreamed of dragons? Or a Stark dreaming of direwolves?” Jon asked, watching Ghost and Snow trotting across the cobbled stones ahead of them, moving further into the town’s center. Jon could now see the marbled dragon statues standing tall in the middle of the great square.

“Perhaps that is true, but it does not mean our dreams mean nothing,” Daenerys said as Jon glimpsed Aggo and Jhogo sitting on a pair of red coursers with two dozen riders waiting behind them. “It is time we do our parts.”

His Queens and their daughters were to visit the bakers, dressmakers, jewel merchants, and stonemasons before meeting with the small khalasar that called Dragonstone home. Barristan Selmy, Garlan Tyrell, and Simon Sunglass would lead the guard that would go with them, while Arthur Dayne and Oswell Whent would accompany Jon and his sons.

While the women of House Targaryen would treat with the Dothraki and shopkeepers along the road that cut through the Port of Dragonstone, Jon and his sons would venture into harbor and its surrounding establishments. He would need to visit several of the inns, an alehouse or two, the blacksmiths, the fish market, and finally the docks themselves to inspect the newly built ships sailed from Driftmark.

From the hills outside the town, Jon was able to see the great masts towering over the carracks his Master of Ships had constructed. Jon was no sailor, but he was sure the ships could sail across any sea when he laid eyes on them from afar. Davos Seaworth confirmed his belief, muttering they could sail the carracks beyond the Jade Sea if they so wished.

“I pray they do not offer us the mare’s milk. I do not think my stomach could take it,” Visenya declared, riding up beside him on her white palfrey as Shadow and Silver ran ahead to join their brother and sister. Jon stole the moment to admire Visenya’s beauty, with her silver hair fashioned in a complex braid that fell all the way down her back, like Daenerys and Rhaenys. He was sure Doreah, Vithi, and Nivvi spent far too long perfecting the complex braids meant to impress their khalasar.

“Pray tell Sister, how does one finish a true northern drink with ease, yet squirm at the taste of mare’s milk?” Rhaenys asked on her black sand steed. Rhaenys did not like either and Jon could not blame her. Like the Dothraki, the free folk preferred strong drinks that were bitter to say the least.

Before Visenya could answer, Rhaenys urged her steed into a small gallop, riding ahead to join the Dothraki with Shadow running to her left and Ser Simon Sunglass trying to catch up with his white cloak billowing behind.

“We will come find you later,” Daenerys promised before she rode off with Visenya and the direwolves to join Rhaenys. Ser Barristan Selmy and Ser Garlan Tyrell were right behind them on great destriers. After them, he watched his daughters ride forth into the crowded square with a host of household guard and direwolves, always there to watch over them.

The last of his daughters to ride past him was Arya. She looked just like her mother, if a few inches taller with a sword always on her hip. Like her mother, Jon thought Arya had a sharp mind for politics. Her natural skill with a sword was inherited from himself or learned from Visenya. _She will make a fine Queen one day, I know it._

“Your Grace?” Ser Arthur tore Jon from his thoughts, reminding him they still needed to make their way through the square and down the street to the port.

“Aye,” Jon acknowledged his most trusted Kingsguard, pulling on the reins of his destrier to turn right, toward the street connecting Dragons’ Square to the harbor. “Send for Rhaegar.”

Jon wanted his eldest son to be seen riding next to him, not because he was his favorite. Rhaegar was the Prince of Dragonstone and Jon knew his son needed to learn how to rule these people before he could sit the Iron Throne. And when Rhaegar did join his side with Ser Arthur on the other, Jon echoed his own father’s lessons. There were many things Rhaegar still had yet to learn, but Jon kept his focus on Dragonstone, the Crownlands, and Blackwater Bay. A prince could not learn to be a king in a day and Jon knew it was folly to think otherwise. _In truth, a prince is never prepared to wear the crown. It is only after he wears it._

Their procession down the street was slow and tedious, but necessary. Jon’s father had taught him the smallfolk deserved to see their King and the people of Dragonstone even more so. The ancestral home of House Targaryen was practically a stone’s throw away from King’s Landing and Jon was not oblivious to the fact that none of its people fed information to the Lannisters or acted on their behalf. He would never forget and always honor that loyalty.

Between the frequent cries of their names, Jon counseled Rhaegar on how he should listen to the smallfolk. _Let them find their voice and speak their troubles. Approach them as a father and not a ruler. And make no promises you cannot keep. Give them your attention and make them feel like they are more important than any other matter in the Realm. It will earn you their loyalty and praise._

Rhaegar did not disappoint. His son listened to the blacksmiths’ stories carefully and questioned them on matters they cared for, even if the stories meant nothing to House Targaryen. Jon always felt a sense of pride swelling when he saw the fruits of Rhaegar’s hard work and efforts. It wasn’t just in the training yard he noticed his eldest’s strong ethic. Be it in the library with Grandmaester Pylos or in the Small Council chambers listening to his parents, Jon took note of his son’s persistence to learn what it took to rule Westeros and Essos.

When it came time to visit the alehouses and later, the fish market, Jon trusted Rhaegar to speak with the common people alone. Eddard went with Rhaegar, as expected. Jon thought Eddard was just as wise as Rhaegar and would make a proper Prince of Summerhall. If there was a son that made him nervous, it was Aegon. Hoping never to allow Aegon to sense his worry, Jon told his namesake to join them as they walked the market.

Jon did not think Aegon was treacherous, evil, stupid, or unreliable. Aegon was a good prince and reminded Jon of his brother. They were quite alike and would be worthy of a crown, but he sometimes thought his son was impulsive. He believed more council meetings and a fair increase in responsibilities may have the needed effect on Aegon.

When the fishermen spoke of who made the best nets and who sailed the fastest ship, Aegon impressed him with his questions and interest in what the men had to say. And when Aegon did not have a question for them, Aeryn was there to ask questions he already held the answers to. Jon was glad to find he needed to say little until the end of these small conversations. Before leaving, Jon put silver in every man or woman’s hand, paying them double for their catch.

The fish market required more than an hour of their time before Jon and his sons reached the port. Every wharf was occupied and every ship belonging to the Targaryen or Velaryon fleet had a captain and his crew waiting for them. Jon led his sons to the first ten war galleys and their crews, complimenting their well-maintained ships and acknowledging their service to House Targaryen.

Jon did not share Aeryn’s interest in the seas and sailing, but his son’s joy made him happy. When Monford Velaryon led them to the new carracks, Aeryn sprinted across the wooden planks with Ghost and onto the sprawling decks of the impressive ships. They were even larger than Jon had expected and his Master of Ships was sure to remind him they were as fast as they were large. _I do not understand how that can be possible, but I will not quibble with a Velaryon when it comes to matters of the seas._

After touring the second carrack, Jon instructed Rhaegar to lead his brothers onto the remaining ships. Jon made sure to thank the Lord of Driftmark for the ships and reminded the old lord that he valued his counsel. The Master of Ships was a loyal lord, and a good husband, according to Jon’s grandmother. It was repetitive, but Jon frequently reminded Monford of his trust in House Velaryon and the close ties their Houses would always share.

“What do you think?” Jon asked the Hand of the King standing to his right and the knight from Bear Island standing to his left. Jon kept his eyes on his sons inspecting the deck of the nearest ship.

Ser Arthur Dayne remained silent, never wanting to offer counsel while they were outside the castle walls. Jon always sought Arthur’s advice, but it would have to wait for the Sword of the Morning was occupied watching the onlookers like a hawk scanning a field for prey.

“You do the smugglers no favors,” Davos offered, earning Jon’s amusement. Few people made him laugh. Lord Davos Seaworth was one of them. And he was right, more and more ships were built every year, effectively ending piracy from the Frozen Shore to the Arbor to the Jade Gates and the entirety of the Narrow Sea. As the pirates suffered, so did the smugglers. The cold waters of the Shivering Sea were no place for pirates and smugglers, leaving most to set sail for the Jade Sea or the coasts of Sothoryos.

Ser Jorah Mormont looked like a man deep in his thoughts, considering his King’s question. Jon asked because Davos knew the seas well and Jorah was a voice he listened to when it came to matters that could affect the politics across the Narrow Sea. The once exiled knight was a valued member of the Small Council who gave wise counsel to a once exiled prince. Forgiving Jorah’s past crimes did not come easy, but Jon felt fortunate Daenerys saw the wisdom in taking the knight into their service. _Without him, the road from Pentos to Vaes Dothrak would have been wrought with mistakes. We knew nothing of the lands or the people._

“The shipbuilders of Hull and Spicetown are without rival, not doubt,” Ser Jorah mused, carefully examining the ships as he leaned against the four-foot-high stone wall separating the harbor and the street running along a row of homes built of dark grey stone. “The Master of Ships has built his legacy. House Velaryon is richer or more powerful than it has ever been. What of Lord Monterys? What does he see of his legacy? His father has already attained the wealth and power.”

Jon knew Jorah was wary of many, but found the concern for the future Lord of Driftmark unwarranted. Monterys Velaryon was a good and loyal friend, practically a cousin. He was just old enough to fight for Jon’s father in Balon Greyjoy’s Rebellion and fought for Jon in his own wars. _If all sons meant to best their fathers’ accomplishments, what will Rhaegar do? No, I dare not speak it. He would not seek out conquest for glory._

“Monford and Monterys swore to me these ships are meant for expeditions and the defense of the Seven Kingdoms, not conquest. House Velaryon can be trusted,” Jon replied. His grandmother served as his eyes and ears on Monford’s voyage east. Both swore House Targaryen would not expand its realm past the Jade Gates to the rulers of every city or port they anchored. “I find aggression from others more likely. You spent more time in Essos than I, Ser Jorah, which of them is more likely to wage war against us?”

“YiTi is the greatest kingdom east of the Realm, but who is to say. I have never been to Asshai nor the Shadow Lands. Queer things are whispered of those lands and others, many false, but I do not doubt the Lady Melisandre when she says there is power in those lands,” Jorah advised. Melisandre proclaimed she was from Asshai, but Jon never asked her about the city or the lands in the east. _Ser Jorah is right not to believe everything spoken of the lands surrounding the Jade Sea. I saw men and women from far away lands in Vaes Dothrak and the stories of their odd appearances were untrue. Men look like men, no matter where they are found._

“Lord Monford and his captains say the YiTish are poor sailors and even poorer shipbuilders,” Jon added, remembering his grandmother saying the same. _She said little of Asshai. The city unnerved her, I think._

“Aye, but their armies are vast and plentiful,” Jorah reminded Jon and Davos. One the armies defeated by Kovarro on the far reaches of the Great Grass Sea hailed from YiTi. It was said to be a slaughter. His bloodriders sent word to King’s Landing of the great battle. His bloodriders described the YiTish as no better than the lamb men, weak and without bravery. Not a single soldier from the invading army returned east to his land. Jon found that hard to believe, but his bloodriders never dared lie to him.

“Walking corpses,” Davos described them, earning Jon’s nod of agreement. If a host from foreign lands was ever large enough to pose a true threat, Jon would call the banners and gather the growing armies in Essos. Should he wish, he could assemble the greatest army and navy the world has ever seen, without mentioning the dragons. “Your Grace…”

Jon followed Davos’ eyes and looked past Ser Jorah to find Jaren Redfort riding down the street on a brown rounsey. The boy was sent to the Red Keep to serve as his squire and Jon found Jaren to have sharp wits for a boy of thirteen years. Jaren wore a red doublet, woven with red and white wool, the colors of his House. In the squire’s hand, Jon saw the parchment intended for his eyes only.

“Your Grace,” Jaren bent the knee on the cobbled stones beneath their feet. When Jon reached out for the parchment, the squire continued, “From Lord Varys, your Grace.”

“Has the Master of Whispers discovered any treasons? Or is it dark news from King’s Landing?” Davos asked after Jon’s squire had left. _Good guesses._

“Neither. Jonos Bracken is calling for Tytos Blackwood’s head and repayment for the crops stolen from his lands. Apparently, thieves have been plaguing House Bracken’s farmers for three moons. Lord Belmore, his sons, and a host of knights were successful ridding the mountains surrounding Strongsong of the mountain clans. Lord Ashwood’s wife has given birth to a girl named Branda. Lord Kenning’s daughter is wed to Lord Hawthorne’s second son. Some brigands were caught on the Kingsroad near Storm’s End…They learned of Stannis’ justice. Half a dozen drunken sailors attempted to steal an Ibbenese cog and attacked the captain. Lord Grafton had them hanged. And a Thenn killed two Hornfoots and a giant killed the Thenn,” Jon finished, relieved that was all he had to deal with.

“I remember the Thenns. Not pleasant people. How will Lord Stark keep the peace between the clans?” Davos asked, with genuine curiosity in his voice.

“He won’t,” Jon answered, rolling up the parchment to stow away. “The giant killed the murderer. The Thenns like their bloodshed, but they will not cross the giants. If they do, they are as brave as they are foolish.”

“Lord Edmure will not quell Jonos Bracken’s rage,” Jorah stated the obvious. Jon did not hold the Lord of Riverrun in high esteem, but he was the Lord Paramount of the Riverlands and never wavered in his allegiance to House Targaryen. _It could be worse. Edmure Tully could be wise and cunning, like Tywin Lannister with no blood ties to our House._

“No, that task is beyond him, I am afraid. I will speak with my Queens and find a solution to this conflict. It is time this rivalry meets its end, at least during my reign,” Jon declared before a chorus of cheers sounded from the harbor’s entrance to the town. _I would be lying to myself if I thought the Blackwoods and Brackens would cease hostilities forever._

The cheers soon became clearer and his wives were riding at a reasonable pace with his daughters and all their guard close behind. No matter where they rode, the smallfolk loved his Queens. His Queens did not look down on the common people like peasants and spoke to them with the respect they would treat a lord or lady.

Bards from Dorne to the Wall sang songs of their beauty and bravery. The people loved Daenerys for gifts of food and clothing to the poor. They loved Visenya for her skill with a sword and bow. All adored Rhaenys for the tales of her singing voice and her charms on royal progresses. But most of all, it was his Queens’ appearance at the Battle of Winterfell that earned the love of the smallfolk. With the dragons, Jon’s wives saved tens of thousands of men who returned home to their wives and children to tell the tale.

“Your presence was missed,” Visenya announced as she slid gracefully from her mare. Still holding the reins, she carefully grazed her hand across her mount’s snout. A horse was not a dragon, but Visenya cared for the mare like a true Khaleesi. Daenerys and Rhaenys were the same in their care for the horses they had brought from the stables of the Red Keep.

“Did you lose our sons?” Rhaenys asked, looking around without true concern.

“Inspecting the ships, speaking with the captains,” Jon answered as his sons disembarked the carracks tied to the piers. The moment the princes set their boots on the wooden planks of the pier, their sisters were waiting there to greet them as if they had been gone for a fortnight instead of a few hours.

“Your Graces,” Davos Seaworth and Jorah Mormont bowed their heads and left Jon to speak with his Queens alone.

“How did our daughters fare?” Jon inquired, interested in how each of them handled their responsibilities as princesses of House Targaryen. He wanted to know who wanted to rule and who wished for a simple life. It mattered not to him if none of them wished to share the burdens their brothers would carry. Jon just wanted his daughters to be happy and safe.

“Arya and Dany do well with the Dothraki. They are loved. Senya and Nymeria know when to listen and what to say to the smallfolk, especially the mothers and little girls. Our next progress should be far less tiring with their assistance. Sansa and Daenys are getting there. And Naerys,” Daenerys paused, thinking carefully on her next words. “She seemed distracted. I am sure it was nothing.”

“Lyarra was wild,” Visenya added, making Jon wonder what his daughter had done.

“She challenged some of the older boys to a race,” Rhaenys explained.

“Did she win?” Jon asked, amused by his daughter’s competitive nature finding its way outside the castle walls.

“Of course,” Visenya said with pride.

“The Dothraki, is there anything I should worry about?” he asked. Each of his wives shook their heads, assuring him there was nothing to worry about. “I will see Aggo and Jhogo on the morrow. I plan to see the training of the young riders and see what they are like on an open field. The training yard does not do them justice. I will take Rhaegar and Aegon with me, I think. Have they said whether they will attend the tourney or not?”

“They will be there,” Rhaenys confirmed. The Dothraki had only ever seen a tourney on Dragonstone and the one they had seen was a small one. It was held half a mile outside the Port of Dragonstone and only attended by lords and knights from half the Crownlands. Ser Garlan Tyrell won that tourney after unseating a knight from Rosby. _They did not kill anyone at that tourney. I will need to speak with them and ensure there is no bloodshed at the King’s Tourney._

“The bakers swore by the gods this will be a good year for their coffers. They say the fishermen’s nets have never been fuller and the sailors have never been so careless with their coin,” Rhaenys informed.

“We are fortunate the long winter did not come. Part of me feared we would never see another summer, listening to what the maesters said about a long summer,” Jon responded. He felt grateful for the luck of the seasons being on their side. He was prepared for a decades long winter that would plague his reign with death and starvation. Instead, the winter was mild compared to the worst of them and ended after three years. Since then, the spring and summer have brought the Realm record harvests and plentiful trade.

“You know better than to listen to those old fools at the Citadel. Marwyn and a few others can be trusted. The rest? I would sooner trust Irri and Jhiqui’s superstitions,” Daenerys jested, making each of them laugh. She reminded him of pleasant memories on the journey from Pentos to Vaes Dothrak. After three days’ ride, Jon learned the two former handmaidens held countless silly beliefs.

“It won’t be long before sunset and I do not think I can wait until we return home. Sheepstealer’s is right there,” Rhaenys suggested, looking over her shoulder toward the center of the harbor. When they were old enough to ride into the town on their own, Jon remembered Rhaenys liked sitting near the open windows of the tavern with the winds blowing in from the sea and the sky turning all sorts of colors before nightfall.

“We were supposed to share a dinner with Arya and Gendry,” Jon reminded Rhaenys.

“That is why I sent a rider to Dragonstone. Our mothers should be coming with them as well,” Visenya added.

“So be it. Ser Barristan!” Jon called for the Lord of Commander of the Kingsguard. The old knight still moved as gracefully in his silver and golden armor as a knight of twenty. “We intend to break our fast at the tavern. Send the men and make sure everything is readied.”

“It is already done, your Grace,” Barristan replied, almost sounding apologetic that he had not already informed him. _He shouldn’t fret. He needn’t tell me of every order he carries out for my Queens._

“Very well,” Jon said, turning his head to find Rhaegar and Arya approaching, speaking to each in hushed tones so only their direwolves were privy to their poorly kept secret. “Rhaegar, Arya, collect your brothers and sisters. This night’s feast will be held at Sheepstealer’s Tavern.”

His oldest looked at one another before sharing delighted smiles. The Crown Prince and Crown Princess-to-be did as he asked and told their siblings of the news. All of them appeared excited to learn they were feasting somewhere other than the Great Hall or the minor halls inside their castle.

It wasn’t long before his family walked down the cobblestone street with the small stone houses to their left and the full harbor on their right. Their guards had retrieved their horses and taken them ahead to the tavern due to the short distance. Jon dragged his feet, trying to find Lyarra amongst her siblings.

“Lyarra,” he waved his eleven-year-old daughter to his side. Leaving Dany, Lyarra came to his side, running her fingers through Ghost’s white fur before he could put his arm around her shoulder. “I heard you challenged some Dothraki boys to a race.”

“I am sorry Father, but they said I was too little and a girl. They said I wasn’t a Khaleesi like mothers,” Lyarra defended herself, afraid he meant to scold her.

“Do not be sorry, Lyarra. I am proud of you. Do not let anyone tell you, you cannot do something,” Jon said, mussing his daughter’s raven hair that already looked a bit of a mess from the wind. When he looked down at her, she looked so much like her mother, only with his own mother’s grey eyes and black hair. “That doesn’t mean I want you diving off the dragon cliffs or climbing onto Vermithrex without me. I want you to be careful. I don’t know what I would do if something happened to you.”

Jon could not bear to think how he would handle one of his children being hurt or worse. His father and brother’s deaths were something he had never truly gotten over. He had lost two uncles, Ned Stark and Lewyn Martell. The world was a cruel place and unfair to many. Jon felt like the world’s luckiest father because nothing ill had ever happened to his children. Rhaenys struggled with Aegon and Nymeria’s birth, but that was it.

“Father, are you alright?” Lyarra asked, picking up on his dark thoughts.

“Aye,” Jon said, kissing the top of her head before looking at her again. “I love you, you know that, right?”

“Yes,” Lyarra looked at him with suspicion.

“Your brothers and I will be visiting the Dothraki on the morrow. It should not take long. When we return, I think I would like you to show me what all you have learned with that practice sword of yours. What do you say?” Jon asked, hoping Lyarra would say yes.

“Yes, Father! Yes!” Lyarra cried, jumping into his arms. Her joy warmed his heart, but it also made him question whether he was doing enough to make his daughter feel loved. _I need to spend more time with her. I need to spend more time with them all. She shouldn’t feel this grateful to have my attention._

“And after, we can fly Vermithrex around the island,” Jon whispered as he settled the princess back on the ground. Lyarra’s joyous smile was a sight to behold. As they walked down the street, he felt he had done some good for the day. Seeing his daughters happy meant the world to him.

**Prince Aemon Targaryen**

His family was not long for Dragonstone. In a sennight, his mothers or one of the servants would wake him and his siblings to tell them it was time to gather their belongings they did not wish to leave behind. Before midday, Aemon would be standing on the bow of a ship, staring at the western horizon with the wind at his back and the sea spraying in his face. These thoughts made him sad.

Aemon did not wish to say farewell to Dragonstone nor spend more than a day’s time aboard a ship crossing Blackwater Bay. He much rather join one of his sisters or brothers atop their dragons. Flying high in the sky, amidst the clouds was where he felt free, only he did not have a dragon of his own to take him there. He relied on his siblings and he knew he could not ask them every time to take him with them when they mounted the great beasts.

King’s Landing felt the opposite of free. The Red Keep offered him no peace, unlike Dragonstone. In the capital, their castle was fuller and always alive with people going about. Lords and ladies, cooks and servants, guards and knights, and all sorts of others left him no peace to read his books. Even the library within Maegor’s Holdfast did not provide an escape from the chaos. Someone always seemed to find and distract him, usually a brother or sister. _Only Naerys understands._

At Dragonstone, his presence was required at court far less. His father and mother left him to his own devices. Aemon always made sure to take advantage of the days spent away from the capital. With fewer Small Council meetings, Aemon was also permitted to steal Grandmaester Pylos’ attention.

Grandmaester Pylos was a wise man and Aemon eagerly assisted the maester of the Citadel whenever he was searching through Dragonstone’s library, dusting off books untouched for ages. Reading these books taught him a great deal about his family’s history and the history of the Seven Kingdoms. Pylos taught him the important lesson of remembering the ink on the pages was written by men. _Men lie, have poor memories, they exaggerate, they confuse details, and they have agendas, never forget._

In their hours spent in the library of Dragonstone, Pylos often reminded Aemon there were valuable lessons to be learned for kings inside the books. Aemon trusted Pylos, but no matter how many pages he read, he found no wisdom greater than his father’s or mothers’. His parents had conquered cities and continents, united peoples who had warred for thousands of years, changed cultures, reclaimed their throne, defeated the White Walkers, and kept the peace ever since. Aemon would listen to them and not the histories when it came to matters of ruling.

It was the howl from his brother Aegon’s white direwolf, White Fang, that put an end to Aemon’s dread. He looked around, realizing he had not paid attention to where they were riding. A quick glance and he soon noticed familiar cliffs and hills. They were only a mile from main gate of Dragonstone and he could see the castle’s dark grey walls from where he sat in the saddle of his grey charger.

Aemon did not mind riding on horseback. He was good at it, like many things. He was good with a sword too, but he did not like training and did not commit himself like his brothers, no matter how much his mother Visenya insisted. He knew she meant well, but he preferred reading histories and learning the things maesters learned.

As he reaffirmed his grip on the reins with his leather gloves, Aemon’s eyes landed on his twin sister Naerys, like they always had. His entire family thought he wanted to be a maester. They could not be more wrong. Aemon liked learning about the Citadel and what it took for a maester to earn each of his chains, but his thirst for knowledge was not his love. He loved Naerys and wanted to marry her, but he knew she did not feel the same. _I would give anything to have her._

While he stared at her, never finding the will to avert his eyes, she caught him admiring her silver braid. Even worse, she graced him with her perfect smile as she looked over her shoulder while Daenys and Sansa were likely telling her of their favorite dresses. Her eyes stayed on his until he turned away in shame, knowing he would never have her.

Brandon and Sansa loved each other. Aemon found it difficult to remember the time when they were simply brother and sister, but it felt so long ago. _I am cursed, like Valarr. At least he wishes to be a Kingsguard. I will ride to the Citadel because I will have nothing else. I will not wed another. I can’t._

Not wishing to torment himself again, Aemon kept his head down, minding the ground ahead of him as Valarr and Brandon argued over who could best each other in the yard. Their bickering and arguing soon devolved into boasts of fighting together and defeating Jon and Eddard. _Fools. They are only a year older than us, but they would have your backs in the dirt before you lifted the practice swords._

Avoiding the odd rock, Aemon did his best to devise a plan to win his sister’s heart. He had gifted her necklaces and a ring before, but they only earned the hugs and thanks a sister would share with her brother. Aemon wanted to curse himself. He had read more books than any in his family, save his mother Visenya perhaps, but they did not offer the knowledge he craved most. The maesters of the Citadel had drawn many maps, but not one to Naerys’ heart. _A map I will never find nor draw._

“Aemon,” he heard his father’s voice after catching the glimmer of a ruby and the dragon crossguards of Blackfyre in the corner of his eye. When he lifted his gaze from the ground below, he caught his mother looking back at them with a concerned look. “Is something wrong, son?” _Is my misery so obvious?_

Aemon was just one amongst three dozen children, yet his mother and father had noticed his frown and sulking shoulders. It seemed his mothers, Visenya and Rhaenys, took notice as well when they looked back. Their entire family was part of the riding party, even his grandmothers, a few Velaryon cousins, and his Baratheon cousins, not to mention the guards. _I should ask Aegon how he finds his luck. I could use it._

“I know you do not like riding, but you cannot hide away in the library forever. If you did, you would soon run out of books to read. What would you do then?” his father asked, putting a strong hand on his shoulder. His father’s grip was firm and strong, that of a warrior’s. Aemon did not think himself a great warrior, but wondered if he should try. _Sansa and Daenys watch Brandon and Valarr train in the yard._

“Write more books. The Citadel is always in need of a good maester!” Aegon jested, laughing as he rode past to join Nymeria ahead. Aemon wanted to pull his brother off his horse and hit him until his fists were bloodied, but he knew that would end poorly only for himself. And as quick as he was angered, Aemon let it go. _Why am I mad at Aegon? The jape was clever._

“Do not listen to Aegon. It seems I have done poorly teaching your brother there are more important things than sparring and hunting. There is no shame in becoming a maester of the Citadel. The wisest man I ever knew was a maester,” his father said, forcing Aemon to furrow his brow in confusion.

“Who?” Aemon asked, curious to learn if his father was referring to Grandmaester Pylos or Seneschal Marwyn.

“Your namesake, Maester Aemon Targaryen of Castle Black. My father, your grandfather, would tell me no one gave wiser counsel than Maester Aemon and he was right. Earning their chains will win them no glory, but that does not mean a maester cannot serve the Realm. The Citadel has its flaws and its own politics, but it is the memory of the Realm. Without our memory, we forget. We forget what is truly important and what threatens the Realm. It almost cost us everything, forgetting…,” his father continued, alluding to the Night King and the White Walker and tales of the Long Night. _The Citadel will not forget for another thousand years, Father will be sure of that._

“Do you want me to be a maester of the Citadel?” Aemon asked, curious to know what his father truly expected of him.

“I want you to be happy. If that means riding to Oldtown with the novices and acolytes, so be it. If you wish to rule a city in Essos or simply remain at the Red Keep or another castle, you may do that as well. Your mothers and I want you to be happy,” his father replied with his hand returned to Aemon’s shoulder.

“What if I wanted to stay a prince and train to become a knight?” Aemon thought, wondering if that would earn his sister’s love. _No, that will not do. Naerys doesn’t linger around the yard like our sisters._

“Do you?” his father looked down at him, attempting to discover Aemon’s truth. Aemon knew his father had a skill for sniffing out lies. His father was a good king and Aemon thought all good kings could tell truth from falsehood. _Does he see through my lies?_

“No,” Aemon dipped his head in shame and self-pity. He did not have the courage to tell them his true dreams. _She would laugh at me, or worse, be disgusted._

Aemon and Naerys had once been as close as any of their siblings. They shared a close bond that only twin siblings could share. It felt unbreakable until it wasn’t, at least for him. It was as if Aemon woke up one day and a thousand miles were between himself and Naerys. He wasn’t sure, but he thought the distance between them formed after Brandon and Sansa shared their affection for one another. Brandon was walking the path he could not.

“The decision is yours,” his father said. _I can see it on his face and hear it in his voice. He knows I am not telling everything._ “If you do not wish to take the vows, you may still study at the Citadel if you so wish. You are a Prince of House Targaryen, arrangements can be made. You brother and sister will take their seat at Fyrestone in a few years’ time. You could split your time between our castle and Oldtown if it is family you will miss. Fyrestone is a short distance from Oldtown on dragonback.” _If only I had a dragon._

Aemon had flown on the dragons hundreds of times in his life. He knew what it felt like to touch the clouds and travel great distances at speed, but never on a dragon of his own. He wondered what that would feel like, to have the power of a dragonrider. Rhaegar had once told him it was a great burden, being a dragonrider. He did not understand then, but he did now. _They fly over Dragonstone with the grace of falcons, but they give a rider the power to lay waste to entire cities._

“That is odd,” Aemon said aloud, looking for the dragons in the sky above the castle. They were not there. Aemon thought it strange he never saw one flying across the sky the day before. A dragon did not linger on the ground for long and Aemon thought it odd to not see any of the twelve overhead. _Two days without their wings beating through the wind? Something is wrong._

“What is it?” his father asked with a puzzled look.

“The dragons, why are they not flying? This is the second day I have not seen one fly or heard their roars in the sky. Odd, is it not?” Aemon asked his father, who stared at him for a moment. He could see his father considering his words, looking down at his destrier before lifting his gaze to the sky above.

“Aye, it is strange. Aemon, come with me,” his father commanded before pulling on the reins of his great black destrier to ride around the princes and princesses. Aemon pulled his knees in and sent his grey charger after his father and Ser Arthur Dayne. Ghost kept pace with the horses, remaining silent as ever, earning his name.

“What is it?” Aemon’s mother asked when his father fell in beside her.

“The dragons. Aemon noticed they have not flown for two days,” his father replied as they continued their ride toward the main gate.

“Moonlight did not let me mount her yesterday. She was acting queer. The others as well. I think they were just hungry,” Nymeria offered, riding behind them on a sand steed.

“If they were hungry, they would hunt,” his mother said before looking to Queen Visenya and Queen Rhaenys. Each of his mothers had their own way of communicating without saying any words. Aemon tried to interpret the expressions on their faces, but soon decided it was folly.

“Best we not let this problem fester,” his father said, twisting in his saddle to look back at Aemon’s brothers and sisters. “Come with us. Each of you needs to check on your dragon. Something is amiss and we need to find out what that is.”

Aemon held tightly onto the reins of his charger as he rode after his father and mothers. He was doing his best to keep up as their horses ran ahead, past the castle walls of Dragonstone, toward the cliffs occupied by the dragons. The day had been uneventful and boring for Aemon, until now. His curious mind wanted to learn what plagued the dragons.

_Why are they not flying now? Do they since a coming storm like the birds? No, that cannot be it. It did not storm last night or this morning. And they have not made any sounds… Mayhaps they have grown tired of the cattle and goats of Dragonstone._

Despite his distaste for partaking on rides as often as his siblings, Aemon felt like a natural rider, meant to ride the Great Grass Sea. His grey mount weaved in and around the rocks that littered the grounds approaching the cliffs. He knew he had his grandmother to thank for his riding abilities, natural or not.

His parents were the first to abandon their saddles, leaving their horses a hundred feet from the dragons. Upon their approach, Aemon saw Silverclaw roar at the sight of them. The dragon’s roar sent a chill down his spine. For the first time, he felt like someone not of his House. Aemon did not know why, but he was sure it was a threat. And when Silverclaw roared, so did the others. The dragons’ breath warmed the winds rolling off the sea.

Rhaegar and Arya halted their horses to his left. Aemon looked to his brother for guidance, but Rhaegar kept his eyes on the dragons and leapt off his saddle to march after their parents. Aemon followed suit, deciding there should be nothing to be afraid of. _I am a Targaryen, the blood of Old Valyria. They will do me no harm._

Crossing the uneven ground with his older brother, Aemon saw the dragons keeping their eyes on the Kingsguard and household guard that came with them. They did not pay any mind to his family or the direwolves.

“What has gotten into them? Rhaegal has never minded their company before,” Arya wondered.

“Stay back,” his father commanded the Kingsguard as he reached for Vermithrex’s snout. “I do not wish to see my Kingsguard burnt. Rhaegar, Arya, go see Viserion and Rhaegal.”

“I don’t understand! They suddenly feel wary of others?” Queen Rhaenys yelled, running her hand along Myrax’s crimson scales as a stablemaster would calm a horse.

When Rhaegar and Arya disappeared behind Vermithrex’s great wings, Aemon decided he would do what a maester would do. He needed to observe the dragons and look for signs of trouble. _What is different? What is missing?_

As he walked past his father’s dragon, Aemon looked around, taking note of where the dragons stood. He wasn’t sure, but Aemon thought the dragons kept to their usual places along the cliff.

Remembering his sister’s guess regarding their eating, Aemon looked to the ground beneath the dragons. His brothers and sisters were so focused on the dragons themselves, they did not care to look at the dirt and grass below. Underneath Vermithrex, Aemon saw the charred, broken, and melted bones of rams, cattle, and those belonging to smaller animals. _They certainly are not hungry. Those bones are new._

No matter how long he tried to study Vermithrex’s behavior or the remains beneath his mass, Aemon found no answers. Trying his luck with Sonar, he walked another thirty feet to stand beside his brother, Eddard. While Eddard was focused on Sonar’s eyes, Aemon looked to the ground. Like Vermithrex, the dirt beneath Sonar was littered with bones.

_The horn of a ram. Ribs from several cows. Goats’ heads. Fish, I think. More rams and more cattle. Perhaps that is a stag or something else. And…Can it? It is._

“Eddard…Eddard…Look! Look!” Aemon thought he yelled as he reached amongst the charred remains of a ram, pulling out a dragon egg. It was not stone like the eggs his mother and father had carried into the flames, but it felt as heavy as stone. In his hands, Aemon held a violet colored egg graced with swirls of even deeper violets. It reminded him of Naerys’ beautiful eyes.

“Dragon eggs,” Aemon heard her soft voice. It was nearly a whisper. He turned to find his twin sister gaping in awe of the egg in his hands. The wonder and awe filling Naerys’ eyes told him what he needed to do.

“Here,” Aemon offered the egg, forcing it into Naerys’ hands before she could retract and deny his gift. “This one belongs to you.”

“I can’t,” Naerys said after staring at it for a time. His sister attempted to hand it back to him, but he shook his head and waved it away. “It is yours. It matches your eyes.”

“Thank you! Thank you! Thank you, brother!” Naerys yipped, throwing her free arm around him. Her embrace meant everything, even though he knew it did not change the way she felt about him. Naerys was happy and that was enough for Aemon.

When Naerys released him from her embrace all too soon, Aemon found her staring into his eyes. The little space between them was an unnecessary pain he inflicted upon himself. He wanted to kiss her, but dared not. He wanted to retreat, but dared not do that either. Aemon felt like he was being torn from all sides. He wanted her, but knew in his heart she did not want him.

They stayed like that, inches apart for what felt like a lifetime. The longer neither of them moved, Aemon felt hope building in his heart, seeing his dream and love within reach. _I just need to do it. Kiss her, you fool._

“Let me see,” their little sister Rhaella demanded, coming between them to touch the egg in Naerys’ hands. “It is warm, like mother said.”

“There are more!” he heard his brother Jon call out, unseen behind the dragons standing between them. Aemon wondered if he had missed any and discovered he had, seeing Eddard pull two more eggs from beneath Sonar’s bronze scales.

“Here, Brother. This one is yours,” Eddard handed him a red egg with swirls of black.

Aemon knew he should feel happy, but it was only sadness that filled his heart. His gift to Naerys was now meaningless. _She was always going to have one. I am a fool, a stupid fool. I was never going to win her heart._

Ashamed of the heavy lump forming in his throat and the sadness creeping across his face, Aemon turned to leave before Naerys could see him like this. He wanted to run back to the castle, but all of his family was around. His brothers loved him, but he was sure they would mock him if they saw him close to tears as he was. All he could do was keep his head down and hope to avoid their gaze.

“Aemon? Aemon, where are you…,” he could hear Naerys calling after him, but did all he could to ignore her.

As soon as he was clear of the dragons, walking on open ground, Aemon made for the horses. Determined not to draw attention to himself, despite being the only member of his family leaving, Aemon avoided the guards’ faces.

“My Prince, is everything alright?” Ser Barristan asked. Aemon could hear the knight’s armor clinging and rattling as he approached from behind. He ignored the knight, climbing his saddle and placing his feet into the stirrups. “My Prince?”

“If my father or mothers ask, I am not feeling well,” Aemon replied, hearing and feeling the shakiness within his own voice. _I am a coward._

Not wanting to talk to anyone, Aemon spurred his charger on and rode past his Velaryon cousins. Each of them was consumed with the spectacle at his back and thankfully paid him no mind. Before he could escape, the voice of his aunt Arya Baratheon called out his name, asking him where he was going. It felt horrible, but Aemon knew it would feel even worse if he stopped to answer his aunt. He ignored her calls and raced back to the stables within the stone walls of Dragonstone.

It had been an hour or two since Aemon had retreated to his chambers and there he remained, with his direwolf, a dragon egg, quill, ink, parchment, and his mind. He prayed it would stay that way. He wanted to be alone.

When he first stormed into his chambers inside the Stone Drum, he found his black direwolf, Midnite, waiting for him. The wolf was hardly a pup anymore, growing as fast as direwolves do in their first year. Aemon knew Midnite sensed his troubles and would not leave his side unless commanded.

Desperate to find anything to distract his thoughts from Naerys, Aemon made for his desk that sat below a window with a view of Blackwater Bay. While his brothers and sisters were surely celebrating their new discovery, Aemon brought ink to parchment and wrote an account of his observations. It was all he could do to remain distracted.

Three full pages of parchment were filled with his thoughts and observations before Aemon reached for the fourth. Aemon had read hundreds of books and thousands of pages written by maesters. He did his best to write his account as a maester would do, noting every small detail and observation of the dragons’ appearance and behavior. It was tedious work, but it kept him occupied and prepared him for his eventual fate.

The last piece of parchment required a great deal of focus and patience. He was not as skilled an artist as his sister, Rhaenyra, but Aemon did his best to draw his dragon egg. His hand retreated at the sound of the door creaking open, leaving the final touches for a later time.

“Aemon?” Naerys called out softly, as if she were afraid to wake someone. Aemon turned away from his parchment and the egg sitting on his wooden desk to find Naerys standing in his doorway. She was still beautiful in her Essosi riding attire, woven with reds and blacks. Naerys looked the perfect princess of House Targaryen, with her Valyrian features and House colors.

As much as he wanted to admire her, he could not deny something was amiss. She looked sad or uneasy, Aemon was not sure. He stood from his seat, but did not find the courage to go to her. _Why is she here and not with everyone else?_

“What are you doing up here? Everyone is still with the dragons and you are here. We looked for you and you were nowhere to be found. Ser Barristan said you did not feel well. Mother and Father were worried,” Naerys continued, stepping forward to sit beside him on the edge of his desk. _And they sent you here._

“They need not worry. I am fine,” Aemon said as Midnite abandoned him to join Naerys’ wolf at the door.

“I worry and you do not look fine,” Naerys argued, inching closer to him. _Do not lie to me, sister._ “I see you have been writing…about the dragons?”

“Aye,” he replied, following her eyes to the pieces of parchment splayed across the desk behind them.

“You still wish to become a maester?” his sister said with disgust and contempt in her voice. It felt like a dagger thrust into his heart. _She does not know me. And what she does believe, she thinks lesser of me._

“No,” Aemon told the truth, wondering why he even bothered.

A silence followed and Aemon was unsure what his sister was thinking. Instead of inquiring why she asked, he stared down at his feet, feeling nervous. When he did steal a glance to his left, his sister looked to be fumbling her fingers across the violet egg within her hands.

“I…I wanted to thank you again for the dragon egg. It is my most cherished gift,” Naerys declared, only making Aemon feel worse. It felt as if she was twisting his heart, there to torment him with lies and feigned concern. And if her concern were true, Aemon knew it was only the concern of a sister for her brother.

“It was no true gift. It was supposed to mean something. There were others... Look, Eddard handed me one,” Aemon pointed to his dragon egg.

“That’s not true. It meant something to me, more than you could ever know,” Naerys offered, placing her dragon egg next to his.

“Do not lie to me,” Aemon said, grimacing at the touch of her hand on his arm. She was sent by his parents to raise his spirits and retrieve him from his room. Her lies were insulting and Aemon wished they had come from anyone else.

“I am not lying!” his sister defended herself. She looked and sounded convincing, but that only made Aemon question his ability to read emotions. “Aemon, you are worrying me. Every time I see you across the yard, in the library, or down the table in the Great Hall, you look sad. And when you look at me, you avert your eyes like you want nothing to do with me.”

“That’s not true,” Aemon protested with a quivering chin and unshed tears in his eyes. Hearing how upset Naerys felt had broken down his defenses. _Stop it, you fool! A prince does not cry. She will think you weak and pathetic._

“And why do you even care?” Aemon continued, leaving the desk to sit on his bed. He no longer wanted to face her or be so near her.

“I care because you are my brother and I love you,” Naerys answered, following him to the bed, standing before him. _Only not in the way I love you._

“Naerys…,” Aemon started, wanting her gone.

Instead of leaving him as he wished, Naerys came closer. Before Aemon could ask what she was doing, her eyes were hooded and her lips parting. It all happened too fast for him to understand.

Her lips were sealed with his and he did not know what to do. Aemon’s nervous hands fumbled at her hips while his lips trembled upon hers. He could not think. All he could do was act and return her affection on instinct. Naerys tasted sweet and perfect. He never wanted it to end, but it did when they both broke apart to draw breath.

“Is this some cruel jest? Did Aegon put you up to this?” Aemon panicked, fearing this was all done to hurt him. It was all too good to be true. He finally had Naerys, but it did not make sense. _This cannot be…She doesn’t love me. I know it._

“Senya put me up to this. I’ve told you a hundred times I love you and nothing happened. I have been waiting. I have always loved you. Did you speak truly when you said you do not want to become a maester?” Naerys asked, staring down at him with her hands on his neck. Aemon could see a tear streaking down her cheek and he was quick to wipe it away before it fell to her jaw.

“I never wanted to be a maester. Father, Mother, they all assume I want to be one because l like to read and write. But no, I never wanted to say the vows. I have never wanted to be a knight or rule a keep. All I have ever wanted…is you, Naerys,” Aemon dared to tell her his truth.

Before he could tell her all his feelings, their lips crashed again. This time, Naerys pushed him on his back and laid on top of him in his bed. He was sure she was the world’s best kisser and he the worst, but she said nothing and he said nothing. Aemon thought to savor the moment, but like their first kiss, it felt like it was over as soon as it began.

“Why didn’t you tell me you felt the same?” Naerys demanded, looking like she was ready to sob.

“I didn’t think you loved me, not how I wanted you to love me. I feel like a fool,” he admitted, making her laugh. Seeing some tears slip from her amethyst eyes, he continued, “Do not cry. I don’t want you to be sad.”

“I am not sad. I am happy,” Naerys corrected Aemon after rolling off him to take her place beside him on the bed. He couldn’t help himself now, raising his hand to her cheek, gently tracing her skin. All he wanted now was to be with her and touch her. “I am yours and you are mine, always,” she finished in High Valyrian.

“Always,” he confirmed in their mother tongue, reminded how beautiful she sounded speaking the language of their ancestors.

“I don’t want to leave,” Naerys whispered as they laid on his bed, staring at one another. Hours had past sense Aemon first tasted her lips and every kiss after felt as thrilling as the first. And when they were not devouring each other, they admitted their mistakes to one another.

Aemon learned he was not the only one suffering alone. His sister confessed she desired to be with him since their twelfth nameday, making him feel like a fool. All the times she had told him she loved him, he thought it meant nothing.

“They will come looking for us,” Aemon said. They had heard several of their siblings speaking in the hallway outside his chambers and the sky was turning a shade of pink. Nightfall would soon be upon them and supper was to be served in the Great Hall. Their presence would be expected and an absence would not be tolerated with nearly all of House Velaryon visiting Dragonstone.

“Let them,” Naerys replied, inching forward to take his lips for the hundredth time. _I will never grow tired of this._

“Aemon? Aemon?” they both heard Senya’s voice after she burst into his room, throwing his door open so her entrance was not missed. Aemon cursed his big sister as he retreated from Naerys’ inviting lips to find what Senya wanted. _Father and Mother sent her._

“What?” Naerys spoke for him, not caring to hide her frustration with Senya.

“Oh…I see you took my advice,” Senya said, giving them both a knowing look. They were caught. Senya had seen enough, but Aemon did not care. “Brother, it is good to know you are not the fool we feared you to be. Hurt her and…,” she started her needless threat.

“I won’t,” he promised with all of his honor. _I swear by the old gods and new. By the gods of Old Valyria, I would never hurt Naerys._

“Why are you here?” Naerys demanded with a certain confidence and annoyance he rarely heard from her. Naerys was timid and often submissive, but she sounded like a conquering princess ready to fly a dragon into battle. Aemon was not sure where this fire inside came from. _Was it the dragon egg? Senya’s interruption alone? Or mayhaps something has awoken inside her now that we are honest with each other?_

“All fire and blood, Naerys. I fear to see your temper when you are wed and your dragon is grown,” Senya sounded amused with Naerys’ fiery outburst, laughing to herself. “I am happy for you. Trust me, I know you two would hide away until the morrow, but things are expected of us. Everyone is already on their way to the Great Hall. Eddard thought I should find you before Mother sent one of the guards looking for you.”

“We will be there,” Aemon said, earning a smirk from Senya before she silently turned on her heels and disappeared through the doorway.

“How do we handle…this?” Naerys asked, returning to her sweet and soft-spoken voice. _She is a dragon when she needs to be._

“This?” he asked before understanding what she had meant. Rhaegar and Arya hid their affections from their parents and those outside their House, or at least they tried. Aemon had not considered it, but in this moment, he knew what he wanted. He had spent long enough hiding his feelings from Naerys. _I will not hide it any longer._ “We will go to the Great Hall, together.”

“Together?” Naerys asked, brimming with joy. Silently answering yes, his sister rewarded him with the ever-pleasing taste of her lips.

Sooner than he wished, Naerys left Aemon alone in his chambers to hurry across the hall to her room. She needed to change out of her riding breeches and find a dress suitable for the night’s small feast. Besides their family, guests from the Port of Dragonstone and several minor lords from the Crownlands would be present. Aemon knew well enough they expected certain things of a princess.

After changing into a finely woven red doublet with black breeches and polished leather boots, Aemon waited for his sister outside her door. When she appeared, he was glad to be the only one to behold her ethereal beauty. Her silver braid was still perfectly intact and she adorned a sky-blue dress typical of the ladies of the Crownlands.

With his sister on his arm, Aemon marched down the spiraling stairs until they reached the ground level of the Stone Drum. Noticing a near empty keep, they hurried their steps as they followed the path leading to the Great Hall. Judging by the number of Unsullied and household guard standing outside the archways leading to the Great Hall, Aemon knew they were the last to arrive.

“Are you ready?” he asked Naerys, stopping outside the hall. Nodding her head with confidence, she nudged his arm. Aemon took the hint and led her through the doors, past two guards in their black armor with the Targaryen sigil emblazoned upon their breastplates.

Once inside the Great Hall, Aemon saw servants bringing food from the kitchens to full tables. The hall was loud and full of life. The first to lay eyes upon them were Aegon and Nymeria. He was sure his older brother said something he would dislike, but it did not matter since he could not hear him from across the hall. Aegon waved his arm, inviting them to occupy the empty space beside Nymeria at their table.

“Senya feared you would never come,” Nymeria told them as Aemon took his seat at the end of long table with Naerys sitting to his left.

“Here, a proper ale, little brother,” Aegon came behind him with one hand on his shoulder and the other slamming a cup of northern ale upon the table. Aemon never cared to sneak sips of ale or wine, but he accepted his brother’s drink, knowing he would never be able to shut him up if he did not.

“To Aemon and Naerys,” Rhaegar toasted across the table without sounding like a prince deep in his cups.

“To Aemon and Naerys!” he heard his brothers and sisters echo on their end of the long table.

The attention was not something he sought, but Naerys’ loving affection was. Aemon felt like a lovesick fool as he brought the cup of ale to his lips, failing to rid the smile from his face as his sister leaned into his side. _I pray I do not wake up and discover this day to be a cruel dream._

**Dowager Queen Elia Martell**

She was dreaming, and then she wasn’t. Elia’s eyes flickered open to her bedchamber filled with sunlight and the pleasant warmth of summer. It was long past the hour to wake, but Elia wanted to fall back into her sleep and return to the dream of Lyanna pleasing her in all the ways she liked.

It was only when she gathered her wits and her eyes fell toward the bed, did Elia discover it was not a dream. Under the white silken sheets, her fingers fisted Lyanna’s smoot raven hair. Before she could say something, Lyanna returned to her slit, treating her to a welcome morning fuck.

“Oh! Lya…, don’t st…,” Elia moaned as her limbs writhed and her body shuddered. Half of her love’s work was already done. Her moans and whimpers were followed by the fury of Lyanna’s skilled tongue lapping at her folds. It felt like she was eighteen years of age again and Lyanna sixteen, after Harrenhal and their passion untamed.

With the gentle circle and flick of Lyanna’s tongue across her nub, Elia was reminded they were never truly tamed. Like all ladies, they raised children and grew old, but they never lost the feeling of the first time they shared a bed. They were without their husband and nothing could fill the hole he left behind, but they had each other.

“You like that?” Lyanna asked, plunging two fingers inside Elia. Her northern wolf was quick to find the spot that unlocked all senses of pleasure. Again, and again, Lyanna found her hidden bundle of nerves while letting her tongue play her clit like Rhaegar could play his harp. In their bedchamber, Lyanna was the musician and Elia her instrument, playing a song they prayed only they could hear.

Unable to answer Lyanna, Elia nodded her head, knowing an answer was not needed. Elia thought herself a well-versed lover and knew herself well enough to know she was close. She was tired of the sheets obstructing her view and threw them back to bear witness to the sight of her fellow queen devouring her wet cunt.

Lyanna’s hair was a mess, hiding the northern beauty Elia fell in love with all those years ago after a tourney in the Riverlands. She did not know if she should have thanked the old gods or new, the gods of Valyria or Lady Melisandre’s lord of light, but Lyanna still had her beauty. Now fifty-one years of age, Elia feared the day she or Lyanna would see themselves in the looking glass and find an old crone in the reflection. That day was still many years from this day and both resolved themselves to not take what they shared for granted.

The time for admiring Lyanna’s beauty did not last. Elia’s eyes grew heavy as her back arched and her fists clinched tighter and tighter around her lover’s hair and the silken sheets to her side. She was seeing stars as her toes curled and the wave of ecstasy coursed through her body, forcing a cry from her lips. Whatever she screamed, it only encouraged Lyanna to take things further, feasting on her cunt until she was spent and unable to move.

All Elia could do was stare at the ceiling of her bedchamber as Lyanna led a trail of kisses from her glistening folds, through her well-kept thatch of hair, past her navel, finally ending at her breasts. Her want for Lyanna somehow grew after feeling the teeth grazing her nipples. Like she always did, Lyanna spent some time on her breasts, kneading and suckling.

“I pity the realm,” Lyanna said after breaking away from Elia’s lips. “I have the finest tasting Dornish and I have her all to myself.”

“Is that so?” Elia responded, brushing Lyanna’s hair from her face so her grey eyes were there to see.

“Have a taste for yourself if you think me a liar,” Lyanna teased, dipping her head back down to capture Elia’s lips. _My sweet wolf, I taste the same as you do._

“We sail in a day,” Elia mused with less dread in her voice than she would have expected. King’s Landing was not as terrible as it once was. Whether the city had grown on her with time or the lack of queenly responsibilities made it more tolerable, she did not know.

“We could stay,” Lyanna offered, lying on Elia as naked as her first nameday with a sheen of sweat still covering both of their bodies. Elia thought her voice sounded unconvincing as she ran her hands along Lyanna’s ass.

“We could, but then we would become bored, alone on this island,” she said without doubt.

“King’s Landing will certainly not be boring. Word of the dragon eggs has likely found its way to the city already and the tourney is not so far away,” Lyanna presumed, knowing just as well as Elia the news would not remain on Dragonstone for long. If there were spies on Dragonstone, they were either the greatest or worst of spies, for there was no hint of treachery from the smallfolk on the island. But there was a port and a dozen lords and knights and their families had set foot inside the castle walls since the discovery of the eighteen dragon eggs.

“The farmers will be pleased,” Elia added. The children of King’s Landing were fond of seeing dragons flying overhead. Dragons came to King’s Landing to conquer and liberate the city. Between Cersei’s lies and one’s natural disposition to fear a full-grown dragon, Elia was sure many feared the beasts’ presence. Ten years later, seeing a dragon flying in the sky above the capital was as normal as seeing a pigeon flying from rooftop to rooftop in Flea Bottom.

The only people she knew who held greater affection for the dragons than little children were the farmers within fifty miles of King’s Landing. Many of them found a steady stream of coin into their coffers for the cows and goats needed to feed the twelve dragons occupying the Dragonpit. Elia was sure they would see an influx of swindlers coming to the Red Keep, begging for payment of burnt and destroyed livestock that never existed in the first place. _I pity the thieves who think they can deceive a king._

“When do you think they will hatch?” Lyanna asked, ghosting a finger down the center of Elia’s chest.

“How should I know? How should any of us know? Pylos or Aemon, that is who I would ask. Surely all those books they have read are not all for naught,” Elia replied, trusting her grandson had read a dozen books covering the history of House Targaryen and their dragons.

“Perhaps, though he may be distracted of late,” Lyanna laughed.

“They make a good pair. I am happy for them, especially Naerys,” Elia confessed. She had noticed Naerys’ longing looks many moons ago and pitied the princess. The entire family thought Aemon dreamed of a future at the Citadel, swearing the maester’s vows. _I should have thanked her. She saved me from never seeing Aemon again._

“Valarr will be more difficult,” Lyanna said.

“Valarr?” Elia was confused, wondering what Valarr had to do with what they were discussing.

“Daenys,” Lyanna confirmed their long-held suspicion. “Senya tried to remain silent, but I got it out of her. It seems she has conjured a plan of her own to betroth them.”

“And this…plan, you think it will work?” Elia inquired, not so sure whatever Naerys used to win Aemon’s heart would help Daenys’ win Valarr’s. Too many times, Elia heard Valarr speak of his dream of becoming a Kingsguard. _He is smart enough to know what that means. He knows the sacrifice._

“Our granddaughter did not offer details, I am afraid. It shouldn’t be too difficult. Daenys is beautiful and Valarr is a boy of thirteen, she only needs to find her courage and take the first step,” Lyanna said. _I pray she does find her courage. If not, I’ll have Aegon or Rhaegar knock some sense into Valarr until he realizes his duty to his sister._

A soft howl caught both of them by surprise. Elia turned over to find Zokla at the side of their bed with an expectant look. He usually kept to the solar outside their bedchamber, but she was sure the grey-black beast was warning them of their late start to the day. Elia reached out to the scratch the wolf’s head before sending him away.

“They do not like to rest for long,” Lyanna said, watching their protector trot back to his place in the solar.

“No, they do not,” Elia lifted her hand to Lyanna’s chin, turning her head so she could look upon her face. “Neither do I,” Elia continued, rising to seal her lips with Lyanna’s before flipping her over so she could be on top.

“We shouldn’t,” Lyanna feigned her protest.

“We should,” Elia whispered against Lyanna’s neck, kissing her way down to her waiting cunt.

“What is it? What’s wrong?” Elia asked, walking into the King’s solar to find Visenya and Daenerys comforting an upset Viserra. She could see the tear stains on the little girl’s cheeks. Jon’s back remained to her. Elia could not see his face, but she could tell he was angered with his arms crossed, brooding as he looked out a window facing the sea. Rhaenys stood opposite Viserra, clearly angered and disappointed in something the princess had done.

Zokla brushed past Elia to lick Viserra’s face in an attempt to raise her spirits or so Elia believed. The direwolves could always sense their moods and Elia had found strength from Zokla many times after her son had been taken from her. _They are so gentle when they wish to be._

“Run along, Viserra. Go find Ashara,” Daenerys said after kissing the girl’s brow. When Daenerys let her go, Viserra hurried toward the door, doing her best to hide her face from Elia and Lyanna. _What in the seven hells has happened?_

“I’m…I’m sorry, Father. I…I…I didn’t mean to…,” Viserra was crying again, this time in front of Elia. She moved to comfort her granddaughter, but Jon was there first, no longer showing his anger and displeasure. Whatever Viserra did, Jon had already forgiven her as he always did. The princes held his ire for far longer when they did wrong.

“It’s alright. It’s alright,” Jon said, hugging his daughter. Rhaenys remained where she stood, eyeing Viserra for any signs of deception. “We just want you to be safe, do you understand? It would kill us if anything were to happen to you. We love you, I hope you know that.”

Viserra nodded her head, unable to speak in her current state. Elia felt sorry for the girl, wishing she could say something to end the tears. Jon left a kiss on Viserra’s brow and the girl scurried off with her silver hair bouncing as she disappeared into the hallway.

“What did she do?” Lyanna asked. Jon remained silent, joining Rhaenys to sit on an empty couch opposite Visenya and Daenerys.

“Our daughter thought is wise to place her dragon egg in the flames of her hearth. When the egg did not hatch, she decided she should join it in the flames,” Rhaenys fumed, sounding like she wanted to curse and scream until her voice was lost. “Poor Ashara, she woke to find her sister in the fire. She pulled her from the flames, unhurt, thank the gods.”

“This happened this morning?” Elia asked, wondering how she did not hear anything.

“Aye,” Jon confirmed, remaining silent and troubled by his daughter’s actions.

“We would have never known if Visenya had not caught Ashara trying to discard what remained of Viserra’s nightgown,” Rhaenys explained. The revelation did not surprise her. Viserra and Ashara were twins and were hardly seen without the other. Ashara would always try to cover for her sister.

“And she is unhurt?” Elia wanted to confirm what her eyes had seen. If there was a mark on Viserra’s skin or a hair out of place, she failed to see it.

“You think I would let her walk out of this room if she were?” Rhaenys shouted, frustrated with what Viserra had done. Elia let it go, understanding a mother’s concern.

“The egg is still intact,” Visenya said.

“The egg? Who cares about the egg? Our daughter could have burned herself, scarred or worse!” Rhaenys raged, looking like she wished to strike her sister.

“But she didn’t and that egg holds her dragon. If it were to die before it hatches, it would crush her,” Visenya spoke softly.

“Do you care more about the dragon egg or our daughter?” Rhaenys hissed with tears brimming in her eyes. “If it were Lyarra or Rhaenyra, you would care.”

Elia was left speechless as was everyone else in the solar. She wanted to curse and scream at her daughter for the vile accusation. _Visenya would die to protect Viserra. She has lost her senses._

“How could you say that? How could you ever say that? I love her just as much as you, as if she came from my own womb,” Visenya stood, crying from the knife Rhaenys had driven into her heart.

“Visenya…,” Daenerys tried to calm her with a gentle hand on her shoulder. Visenya wanted none of it, brushing Daenerys’ hand away. None of them had a chance to calm the situation before Visenya fled the room, either disappearing to the godswood or Silverclaw with Silver quick on her heels.

“Visenya!” Jon called after her, but Visenya was gone. Jon paced the room, silently keeping all of his emotions to himself. “Fuck! Why did you say that?”

“Rhaenys, Visenya loves our daughter,” Daenerys glared at Rhaenys, ready to unleash her fury if more ugly accusations were said.

“I know,” Rhaenys said after a long silence. _Always stubborn to admit when you are wrong. Curse you, Rhaenys. I did not raise you to be like this._

“Do you?” Daenerys continued, tempting Rhaenys to say more hurtful words. Elia felt uncomfortable with the tension between them. She had never seen them like this and did not think it was her place to be there to witness their arguments.

“I will go after her,” Rhaenys stood, moving toward the door, only to be pulled back by Jon.

“No, let her be. She will come back when she is ready. Go to her now and she is likely to put Silverclaw on you. I do not want my Queens warring outside the castle walls for all to see,” Jon warned Rhaenys. Elia found the wisdom in her son’s words. As a husband and especially as the King, he did not need outsiders to see a schism forming between them.

“The betrothals can wait until we set sail,” Elia announced, telling Lyanna to come with her. Daenerys and Jon nodded in agreement, silently thanking her for deciding matters of the Realm could wait.

She had come to their chambers to discuss potential betrothals for ladies of Houses Fossoway, Vyrwel, Durwell, Orme, and Crakehall. There were various political and economic considerations and Jon had requested their opinion with regards to the more personal elements of the betrothals. Elia and Lyanna were well-versed in the opinions of the ladies of the Reach. Lady Durwell and Lady Vyrwel would demand betrothals for their granddaughters to heirs of Houses greater than their own.

Elia already had a list of potential nobles the ladies of Houses Durwell and Vyrwel could wed without their grandmothers raising too much trouble. Such matters were usually entrusted to Highgarden, spare the Crakehall girl, but ravens had been sent to Dragonstone, seeking betrothals to lords outside the borders of the Reach.

As Elia stepped into the hallway behind Lyanna and Zokla, she paused with Ser Arthur and Ser Barristan on either side. She looked over her shoulder and found Daenerys and Rhaenys enveloped in Jon’s arms. _I pray this matter is resolved before King’s Landing._

**Queen Visenya Targaryen**

“Go on, you have said your farewells. You will see them in two days if the winds are kind,” Visenya ordered Alysanne and Vaella away. Neither fought her, quickly scurrying down the docks to catch up with their brothers and sisters to board _The Sea Dragon._

The two silver haired princesses gifted the onlookers with several waves of their hands before returning to their grandmothers’ sides. The entirety of the town’s populace or close to it was there to see the King and Queens off. If it were another time, the cheers and love of the smallfolk would have warmed her heart. Instead, Visenya’s heart was filled with hate and resentment, all for her sister.

It was all made worse by the mummery they put on outside their bedchambers. Visenya was forced to play the good queen and act as if nothing were amiss. Beneath her well-practiced façade, a storm raged inside her. She had never felt like this. Certainly not since she had wed Jon all those years ago.

After Rhaenys had poisoned her ears with her vile accusation, Visenya fled the Stone Drum with some haste. She wanted to be as far away from Rhaenys as possible and marched out of the main gate with Ser Simon Sunglass crowding her when she so wished to be alone. Silverclaw was her savior, finding her outside the gate and whisking her away to fly over the Crownlands until she no longer wished to plunge Dark Sister into her sister’s heart.

When she returned, they spoke no words. Visenya hardly said a thing. That night, she never felt further apart from her sister. They shared the same bed, but a thousand leagues laid between them. This morning was the same. Visenya woke, said no words, did not make love, and found a warm bath before changing into clothes suitable for their departure.

“Dragonstone is yours,” Jon told Rhaegar, something she did not want to hear for some time. It was a sure reminder the years had passed by and if she was not careful, the coming years would pass by just as swiftly.

“For two days,” Rhaegar said in a stern voice, making Arya chuckle beside him. Their eldest children were staying behind, intending to return to King’s Landing on dragonback. It was a struggle convincing their wolves to leave them behind and board the Targaryen flagship near the end of the docks.

“Two days or two years, it does not matter. You are the Prince of Dragonstone and the lord of these lands. Follow your instincts and use your best judgement should something require your judgement. You have my trust, son,” Jon said, placing a hand on Rhaegar’s shoulder. Rhaegar was like Jon, never one to show his emotions, but she could tell his father’s words meant everything to him.

“Nothing will happen,” Daenerys eased his nerves, kissing his cheek farewell. Visenya did the same, following Daenerys as they bid each of the children farewell. As she embraced each of them, she did her best to avert her gaze from Rhaenys. Visenya did not want to look her in the eyes or even brush against her shoulder. The very sight of her sister drove Visenya close to madness.

“Sarra is returning with you?” Visenya asked Dany and Jon, seeing Grey Worm and Missandei’s daughter waiting for them on a grey mare.

“Aye, Vyraxes likes her,” Dany said, looking back at Sarra.

“Be careful and do not do anything foolish while you have your freedom. If there is any mischief, I will hear of it,” Visenya cautioned her son and daughter, trusting Dany less than Jon.

“You always think the worst of me, Mother,” Dany shook her head. It was not truly mischief Visenya feared they would find. She rather encouraged their children finding trouble, certainly more than Daenerys or Rhaenys. Visenya worried what would happen inside their chambers with no one there to dissuade them from becoming even more intimate than she already suspected.

“When you return, inspect the guards’ watch around the Dragonpit. I am sure the captains have maintained things since we have been gone, but it is good to let the Unsullied know we have not forgotten them or what they have sacrificed,” she told them, meaning to visit the Unsullied’s barracks on Rhaenys’ Hill as soon as permitted.

“It is time,” her husband said with a hand on her shoulder, slowly pulling her away. Before she could leave, Visenya had to hug each of the children. A terrible doubt lingered in the back of her mind, making her question if she had not shown a mother’s love to the children who did not come from her womb.

“You have hardly said a thing since yesterday,” her brother and King said in a hushed tone as they followed Daenerys and Rhaenys down the docks. Jon was careful so that no one heard him, not even the Kingsguard surrounding them. Visenya guessed they had heard some of the yelling in their solar and her abrupt flight from Dragonstone was hard to miss.

“What is there to say?” she mumbled, watching the sailors loading ships, untying rope, readying sails, and shouting commands across their decks.

“You know Rhaenys did not mean it,” Jon said, sounding sure of himself. Visenya was not so sure.

“Do I? I would never…,” Visenya held her tongue. She knew herself and if she continued down that path, her anger would show. _I am a Queen of the Seven Kingdoms and House Targaryen. I rule from the Lands of Always Winter to Qarth and there are eyes on us. I mustn’t show weakness or anger or any signs of vulnerability within our House._

“I know, I know,” Jon calmed her, laying a kiss upon her temple in a rare display of affection they hid from those who were not family.

The winds were kind, enough so, Visenya needed the wool blanket Jon had handed her before she abandoned their quarters. _The Sea Dragon_ moved briskly through the churning waves of Blackwater Bay under the starry night sky. Visenya could even feel the occasional drop of seawater splashing against the ships bow just high enough to touch her skin.

“It is a beautiful night,” Visenya flinched at the sound of her sister’s voice. Rhaenys had snuck up and come to stand beside her at the ships bow. She said nothing, unable to refute her sister’s claim nor look at her. She kept her eyes on the clear sky above, painted with a thousand stars, instead. _I missed it when it was just me, the captain, and the two poor sailors assigned the night’s shift._

“Sister…,” Rhaenys whispered. _She will not leave me in peace._

“You said the worst thing you could possibly ever…say…to me,” Visenya tried to speak through the tears and pain. The wound had been opened again and all she wanted was to hide away before she said something worse to her sister. “Do…do you understand how that felt? Viserra is mine just as much as she is yours. I loved her since the day she came into this world. I loved her the moment I held her in my arms in Lys. I remembered seeing her beautiful eyes peaking open as she wailed in my arms and I promised her I would always love her. How do you think that felt? Accused of not caring for her as I do Lyarra or Rhaenyra. How dare you! How dare you! I would never say such a thing to you. I would never…”

“I know and I am sorry. I am so sorry,” Rhaenys replied, stepping closer to Visenya. She could see the tears in her sister’s eyes and the heavy lump in her throat. It only angered her more.

“Then why did you say it? Why? Why?” she screamed inches away from her sister’s face. “After all we have been through, after all we have lost, you said that. Now I look at Viserra and Ashara, Lya and Rhae, and I ask myself if I have loved them as a mother. Do you…”

Visenya choked on her tears, furious with Rhaenys and herself. She swore she would save this confrontation for Maegor’s Holdfast, once everything had been settled, and they were in the safety of the King’s Chambers. It was inevitable, but she did not wish for this battle to occur on these terms.

“Do you know how that feels? To question your own love for your daughters and sons?” Visenya finished, wishing Rhaenys wasn’t her sister.

“No,” Rhaenys admitted, dipping her head in shame. Visenya was handed a small victory she did not seek. She wanted none of this to happen. Her heart was twisted further when she realized what she had wished. _She is still my sister. I still love her. She was the best sister I could have had. How could I think that? It’s worse than what she said._

“Forgive me…please,” Rhaenys pleaded with a quivering chin and tears rolling down her face. “Please, Visenya, I love you and I know you love our children. I know it…I…I know it in my heart. I was angry and stupid. I just wanted Viserra safe and I was upset.”

“Forgive you?” Visenya turned away, considering Rhaenys’ plea.

“Visenya, I’m begging you,” Rhaenys said, pulling on her wrist, forcing Visenya to face her sister. She wanted to push her away and say something evil that would hurt Rhaenys, but couldn’t. No matter how much she tried, she couldn’t enact her own selfish revenge. “If you cannot forgive me, then at least return to bed with me. You shouldn’t be alone out here.”

“Mayhaps I should,” Visenya said, wanting to be alone again. It was simpler when it was just herself and the sea. Visenya almost told her sister to leave, but the longer she thought on it, she decided she was lying to herself. It wasn’t simple being alone with her own dark thoughts poisoning her mind.

“You shouldn’t,” Rhaenys said in a steely tone before seizing her in a loving embrace. _Curse you, Rhaenys. Curse you. I want to hate you right now._ “A Targaryen alone in the world is a terrible thing.”

Visenya felt like a fool, falling for Rhaenys’ apology, but Maester Aemon’s words rang true. She could not be alone. She needed Jon, Daenerys, and Rhaenys. They were her life and she wasn’t going to let her sister’s temper ruin what they had. Trusting her sister, Visenya lifted her limp arms and reciprocated her sister’s embrace.

Closing her eyes with her brow buried in her sister’s shoulder, Visenya let the last of her tears spill out. She swore this would be the end of it and never speak of the matter again. Visenya wanted to forget her sister’s accusation in a moon turn and return to how things had always been.

“I am going to make this up to you, I promise,” Rhaenys whispered against her ear with a hand cradling her head. Visenya gave her sister a final squeeze before stepping out of her embrace to wipe away the tears. “Do you want to stay a bit longer? We can look up at the stars like we used to.”

“No,” Visenya answered, shaking her head. “I just want to go to bed. If we stay up here much longer, Jon may think one of us has thrown the other into the sea.”

Visenya was happy to hear her sister laugh at her poor attempt at humor. Rhaenys’ laugh was true, but she was still uneasy. She could see her sister was still trying to read her and whether her unspoken forgiveness was true.

To her relief, Visenya did not cross paths with any of their children or a member of the Small Council. The captain and sailors were occupied with their duties or pretended to be. Brienne of Tarth joined them at the stairs leading below deck, saying nothing of their argument. They walked past their children’s quarters in silence down the narrow hallway until they reached the stern where their quarters were guarded by Ghost and Ser Garlan Tyrell.

Inside their quarters, Daenerys was already asleep with her silver hair unbraided, splayed across her pillow. Jon was carefully slipping out of the silken sheets when he saw them enter and Visenya caught the look of relief washing over his face when he saw Rhaenys behind her. He was out of the bed and cupping her face before she could even reach her wardrobe.

“Is everything…,” he whispered with concern before she cut him off.

“Everything is alright. It is in the past. Let us not speak of it again,” she answered, thinking the wound was beginning to heal. “Now, if you would help your Queen undress.”

And so he did, untying the laces on her back, letting her dress pool at her feet. His strong, but gentle hands were joined by Rhaenys’, removing her small clothes so that she was naked as her first nameday. Jon’s arms enveloped her, protecting her from all her pain and suffering. Rhaenys did her best to make amends and heal Visenya’s wounds, but it was always Jon who cured her heavy heart.

They waited until Rhaenys was undressed before joining a sleeping Daenerys in their bed. Jon returned to his place behind Daenerys as she laid on her side. Visenya slid beneath the sheets, crawling behind Jon as he threw an arm around Daenerys when a shiver passed through her body, telling them she was cold.

Visenya feared another night like their final night on Dragonstone. She never wanted to feel like that again. It felt cold and miserable, sharing a bed with someone she felt she could not trust, or even worse, love. A small kiss on her shoulder and the feeling of Rhaenys’ warm skin on hers conquered that fear.

**Crown Princess Arya Targaryen**

Her last night on Dragonstone was not going according to plan. She was supposed to be alone, with Rhaegar all to herself. Instead, she found herself surrounded by her brothers and sisters. _It could be worse._

After some convincing and a small veiled threat, the household guard that remained with them moved their posts to the top of the spiraling stairs at the far end of the hall. She was unsure of which guard spied for whom, but she was determined to prevent Varys or her parents from hearing of where her sisters or herself slept.

With the first part of her plan enacted, Arya returned to her chambers and quickly slipped out of her dress. Wishing she had the assistance of her handmaidens, Arya pushed ahead with the tedious task of unbraiding her hair. When all her braids were undone and her hair fell down her back like a flowing waterfall, Arya reached her door, only to remember she was still naked as her first nameday. _That would not have been wise._

Dressed in her favorite white chemise, Arya snuck across the corridor to slip into Rhaegar’s chambers. To her and Rhaegar’s dismay, his solar was filled with the voices and laughter of their siblings. He looked as displeased as she felt, knowing they would have to wait.

“What is the first thing you will do when we return to King’s Landing?” Jon asked, seated on the couch across the solar. Dany clung to his doublet as if the blazing hearth to Arya’s left was not warm enough for her. Her sister still wore her riding breeches and a red blouse that bared her arms.

“Race down the Street of Sisters, find White Fang before he bites some poor squire, steal some of our finest Dornish from the wine cellars,” Aegon jested, playing with the half-empty cup in his hand. Arya knew better. Aegon would do as he said and make away with the best of the Dornish reds. “And after that? Hide away at the feast. Pray some ugly girl from the Reach or the Riverlands does not ask me to dance.”

“What if the girl were pretty?” Nymeria questioned with a raised eyebrow, sitting beside Arya on the couch.

“They can dance with some other lordling or knight. I have the prettiest woman in all the Seven Kingdoms,” Aegon proclaimed with his usual prideful smile. Nymeria was quick to seize his lips. Their kiss was long and passionate, even for them. Arya and her siblings had long been accustomed to Aegon and Nymeria’s displays of affection.

“That’s enough,” Senya protested, sitting on the other couch with Eddard to her left. “We came here to drink and talk, not to watch you two make love.” _I came here to make love, Senya._

Arya felt her body aching for Rhaegar to be inside her. Only a few more inches up her thighs and Rhaegar’s hand would be under her chemise, discovering just how wet she was for him. Her patience was running thin the longer she was forced to sit and drink and converse with her siblings. _I need him inside me. Leave, you fools!_

“Spare us with your modesty, sister. And it was just a kiss,” Nymeria said, untangling herself from Aegon. Arya knew Nymeria was still a maid, but the hunger in her brother’s eyes made her think Nymeria may not remain one for much longer.

“Modesty? I would call it courtesy. Not everyone at court wishes to see you and Aegon all over one another every time they turn a corner in the Red Keep,” Senya countered, forcing Arya to laugh before she brought her cup of wine to her lips. She noticed Dany did the same, afraid they would spit out the Dornish red with laughter. _They always do seem to be kissing in the halls at every turn._

Arya did not wish to show her affections for Rhaegar to the world like her little sister and brother, but a part of her wondered what it would feel like. It would all be different at the King’s Tourney. Rhaegar would win her a crown and name her the Queen of Love and Beauty. He would proclaim her his princess and future queen. Day by day, Arya found herself impatiently waiting for the moment the entire Realm learned she would not marry an heir to some great House. _I will marry Prince Rhaegar Targaryen, my brother and the love of my life._

While her brothers and sisters continued their jests and conversations, Arya sipped on her wine dreaming of the future that was nearly within her grasp. She wanted a wedding in a godswood, like her mothers. Winterfell would be an impractical choice, leaving the Red Keep, Dragonstone, or Summerhall. Dragonstone was her preferred choice, but she was sure a compromise would need to be made. Her wedding with Rhaegar would be a great event and many lords and ladies would expect to be invited, meaning the Red Keep would have to be her choice.

The longer her siblings stayed in Rhaegar’s solar, Arya quenched her thirst for her brother with the occasional kiss, reminding herself there was still an entire night left to them. To her frustration, Rhaegar did not seem to mind Aegon’s telling of rumors surrounding the tourney or Jon’s recounting of a spar with the Kingsguard. He even seemed to enjoy listening to Nymeria and Senya speak of their newest dresses or the gossip surrounding several ladies at court.

“Can you send them away?” Arya whispered in Rhaegar’s ear after tasting his lips. She could hear Dany speaking of Aemon and Naerys, but did not listen to everything she had to say. Her mind was focused on Rhaegar and the night they could share in his bed.

“If that is your wish,” Rhaegar whispered back.

“Did you notice our mothers not speaking to one another?” Senya asked before Rhaegar could send them away. Arya wanted to curse her sister for bringing up what they had all noticed, but dared not speak of.

“Aye,” Dany said with a sadness in her voice. It made them all sad. Arya could not remember a time her parents ever quarreled.

“I think it had something to do with Viserra walking into the flames,” Nymeria said, bringing her cup of wine to her lips with a thoughtful look on her face.

“Whatever it is, I pray it is resolved before we return,” Jon said. Arya agreed with her brother. The thought of a schism lying between her mothers made her want to scamper off to her chambers and hide under her bed like a little girl, afraid of any conflict.

“I think it is time I retire for the night. If I get any further into my cups, I fear I will not wake early on the morrow,” Rhaegar announced, lying to them all for her. Arya stood with her brothers and sisters, hugging each of them before they returned to their own chambers or each other’s.

“If it is not too much trouble, would you check on Sarra? I pray she is feeling better before we leave,” Arya pulled her sister, Dany, aside. Sarra was supposed to be with them, but Senya had told Arya she was not feeling well after the small supper they shared in one of the minor halls.

“I will,” Dany replied, hugging Arya again before she disappeared down the hallway, chasing after Jon.

“Now…I…have…you…all…to…myself,” Rhaegar said between the kisses he laid upon her neck and bare shoulder. Arya did not realize how impatient Rhaegar was to be rid of their brothers and sisters until he lifted her chemise and tossed it aside.

He was never this bold, unclothing her before an open door. Arya spun on her heels to look up at his dark violet eyes staring down at her. She seized his lips for herself while he managed to close the door behind her. With every step backwards Rhaegar took, Arya helped him remove his clothes between kisses.

It wasn’t until they reached his bedchambers that he was as naked as herself. Arya wrapped her fingers around his throbbing cock, slowly stroking Rhaegar while she decided how she wanted him to take her. As she guided him toward his bed, she decided it would not do.

_There is no one to spy on us. No one to catch us. No one to stop us. This bed will not do._

“What is it? Did I do something wrong?” Rhaegar asked, ready to apologize for nothing he did.

“We have an empty castle and there is no one to stop us…,” Arya said, considering her options. She thought of every hall and corridor, weighing the risks and who might stumble upon their lovemaking.

“Arya…no,” he read her mind, stopping her before she truly tested their freedom. _The Throne Room would have been nice._

“Fine, but after we are wed and you take Dragonstone as your seat, you are fucking me on our throne,” Arya tried her most seductive voice, earning a growl from Rhaegar as she stroked him a few more times. “Your solar, now.”

Rhaegar wasted no time, lifting her off the ground with his hands on her ass and her legs wrapped around his waist. Arya closed her eyes as her heart skipped a beat when his mouth latched onto her breast. Her fingers fisted his raven curls, silently telling him she loved it.

Arya wanted him to take her other breast and lavish it with equal care and attention. Rhaegar had other ideas and laid her upon the couch they were just sitting. He looked at her like a hungry wolf, studying every inch of her skin as she laid there for him.

“Are you just going to stand there and gawk?” Arya asked before spreading her legs for him, revealing the wet folds crying for his intrusion. “Or are you going make love to me?” she continued in High Valyrian.

Rhaegar did not hesitate, plunging his hard cock inside her waiting cunt. Like he always did, Rhaegar started at a slow pace, but he surprised Arya, thrusting into her as hard as he could sooner than she expected. She screamed his name without fear of being discovered or disturbed. The only ones who could possibly hear her pleasure were her brothers and sisters or a guard disobeying her commands.

“Rhaegar…oh, my prince…my husband…my ki…,” Arya’s words died on her lips as Rhaegar quickened his thrusts. He went deeper and deeper until he filled her to the hilt, hitting her walls with his length.

“Arya…Arya…Fuck!” Rhaegar growled, firming his grip on her hip while his other hand kneaded her breast. Arya let out a devilish laugh, mixed with her moans as he played with her breast. She loved the feeling of his thumb rolling her nipple, but Rhaegar abandoned her breast sooner than she wished.

She wanted to protest, but his hand lifted her leg so it rested on his shoulder. Arya was not sure it gave him any greater access to her cunt as he fucked her, but she liked it. He had never done this before.

“Rhaegar…there, please, faster, please brother…like that…like that…,” Arya begged as Rhaegar hit her core harder and harder. She could feel herself getting close as her toes curled, her muscles tensed, and her walls closed in on his thick cock. Arya fought to keep her eyes open, wanting to see her brother and lover find his own relief.

Arya knew Rhaegar was close when he kissed her ankle while his hips slammed into hers like a battering ram attempting to break down the gate of a castle. The moment his lips abandoned her skin, she felt his searing hot seed paint her walls. Rhaegar’s hips shuddered and slowed for a few moments until he gathered himself and returned to his previous pace.

It may have been a foolish thought in her mind, but Arya felt his action was proof of how strong his love for her was. She outlasted Rhaegar, but he was determined to see her cum for him. And she did, seeing stars under hooded eyes a minute or so later. They were still not wed, but Arya felt the satisfaction of a wife thoroughly fucked by her loving husband, lying in their shared chambers.

“Come here, love,” Rhaegar said huskily, pulling on her arms until she rolled over onto his lap. Arya rested her brow in the crook of his neck, taking in the smell of their sex. She smiled to herself when she felt his cock brush against her folds, already hard again.

“I love you,” Arya whispered against his chest as she rolled her hips. She couldn’t help herself, teasing his cock with her soaking petals.

“And I love you,” Rhaegar swore in their mother tongue. Arya loved when they talked like this.

“I think we made a terrible mistake,” she confessed, spreading her legs a little more as she straddled Rhaegar. They were linked as one, with her breasts pressing against his chest and her cunt sheathing his cock inside her.

“And what mistake is that?” Rhaegar said with a hitch in his voice when she sunk down on his cock. She could feel him throbbing inside her already.

“This, we should have done this all day. It has always been a dream of mine to just stay in your chambers all day, neither of us dressing, and we would make love from sunrise to sunset,” Arya answered with gentle rolls of her hips.

“We can still fuck from sunset to sunrise,” Rhaegar replied. Arya did not think his words to be the most romantic, but she liked it.

“Aye,” Arya beamed with a smile, gazing upon her brother’s face. “Well, you better get to work.”

And so he did, lifting Arya’s ass until she was bouncing on his length at a steady pace. The rest of their night and early morning was spent fucking and worshipping the other’s body. By sunrise, Rhaegar had kissed every inch of her body and pleased her in almost every way they knew how. And she did the same for him, ensuring she had taken all of the seed he had to give. Arya did not want the night to end, afraid of all the nights that would follow, unable to compare to the one they had just shared.

When the night did meet its end, Rhaegar graced her with one more fuck on the terrace outside his bedchamber. She watched the sun creep above the horizon as Rhaegar took her from behind. They had never done that before, but Arya was happy they did. She could not explain it, but it filled her with hope for their future. _After we are betrothed, every morning can be like this. No more hiding. No more separate chambers. No more waking alone, without his arms around me._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Visenya & Rhaenys could not stay hating each other forever. Naerys & Aemon got what they want. Next chapter is King's Landing and the Targaryens will make an entrance. Not settled on the POVs yet, but I know there will be a small council meeting.
> 
> Please leave any comments, questions, critiques, suggestions, etc. below.
> 
> An appendix for this series should be posted soon.


	6. The Return to King's Landing

**Crown Prince Rhaegar Targaryen**

It seemed like moments ago when the Red Keep and the walls of King’s Landing were nothing but a speck on the horizon. Now, Rhaegar could see every window and balcony of Maegor’s Holdfast, every watchtower and battlement along the city walls, and the countless shingled roofs that filled King’s Landing. Beyond Aegon’s Hill, he could see the tips of the ruined Dragonpit on Rhaenys’ Hill and the newly constructed marble towers of the Dragonhall on Visenya’s Hill.

As Viserion flew with all his speed, Rhaegar heard the bells ringing across the city, telling the smallfolk of their return. He could see his parents’ four dragons already flying circles above Aegon’s Hill. Rhaegar was sure their cries told the people of their King’s return sooner than the gold cloaks who manned the bell towers. Men were wearing the armor of the Targaryen household guard and Unsullied could be seen waiting outside the Mud Gate. Dozens of skiffs were already near shore, carrying his family and their advisors from _The Sea Dragon._

Before the shadows of Viserion’s wings could pass over land, Arya pulled Rhaegal into their path, daring Rhaegar to chase after her. He could see the smirk on her lips, reminding him she was correct. Arya never wished to leave their chambers and it required a great deal of pleading to pull her naked form from the silken sheets of his bed. His fears of a late arrival were unwarranted.

Accepting his sister’s invite, Rhaegar nudged his gold and cream scaled dragon into a descent toward the mass of ships setting anchor near the mouth of the Blackwater Rush. Thirty or more ships had sailed from Dragonstone to escort his family across the Blackwater and Arya brought Rhaegal low enough so that his wings were nearly level with the masts of the war galleys. Unlike the fisherfolk and children gathered on the shore, the sailors paid them no mind, too busy readying for port.

The bells of King’s Landing continued to ring out through the city, making it difficult to hear the cheers of the people below as Viserion carried Rhaegar over the Mud Gate. As he anticipated, crowds of people were gathering in Fishmonger’s Square, held back by the City Watch and Unsullied. This day was no different than all the other times Rhaegar had returned to King’s Landing with his family. His great grandmother was the one to tell him it was not always like this. Not every Targaryen king returned to the city as a conquering hero.

With a near-empty Street of Steel passing beneath him, Rhaegar stole a glimpse over his shoulder to find he was the only one following Arya. His brothers and sisters were taking different paths in the sky to the Dragonpit. Vermithrex, Drogon, Myrax, and Silverclaw still circled the Red Keep, letting out roars that conquered the music of the city bells.

During their flight toward the King’s Gate, Arya wove Rhaegal through the sky like a serpent snaking through the grass. Her face was hidden from him, but he did not need to look upon it to know she was beautiful. Arya’s silver mane danced in the wind, reminding him how lucky he was to know his sister would be his Queen. _The people will love her. They already do._

Once they reached the King’s Gate, Rhaegal and Viserion roared for the city below to hear. The gate was well guarded with two dozen gold cloaks watching who came in and out of the city. Rhaegar only had a few seconds to watch a farmer ride a cart full of apples through the gate before Arya turned for Visenya’s Hill.

The Hall of Heroes, or the Dragonhall as it was commonly referred, stood high on Visenya’s Hill towering over all the other buildings. Its red marble shone in the sunlight, proving to the Realm what House Targaryen could accomplish within a decade. Rhaegar never laid eyes on the Great Sept of Baelor, but he was sure his father and mothers’ creation was far more impressive.

Two years after the Great War, the ruins of the once great sept were removed. In its place, the King and Queens commissioned a hall to celebrate heroes of the Realm. What should have taken thirty years to plan and build took nine. Seneschal Marwyn and two of his chosen archmaesters oversaw the construction of the temple for heroes.

Where the Great Sept of Baelor had seven towers, the Hall of Heroes had twelve. Its dome stood taller and its gardens grew greener, or so the smallfolk said. Great fountains with statues of dragons and the odd direwolf filled the gardens and plaza surrounding the hall. Inside, Rhaegar remembered all of the statues of his ancestors. At the center of the hall under the great dome stood statues of Aegon the Conqueror and his sisterwives. Another hall was dominated by the statues of Jaehaerys the Conciliator and Good Queen Alysanne while another was saved for Rhaegar’s namesake and Uncle Aegon, whom he would never know.

There were other statues of renowned Targaryens, some smaller than others. There were statues for Aemon the Dragonknight and Maester Aemon of Castle Black. Most of the Hall of Dragons celebrated House Targaryen, but there were statues for other heroes of the Realm. Rhaegar’s father made sure to show him the likenesses of Lord Eddard Stark, Prince Lewyn Martell, and Ser Edwyn Celtigar. Under each heroes’ statue, their deeds were etched in stone, ensuring the Realm would never forget.

It took his dragon’s roar to tear Rhaegar’s gaze from the four great statues standing in the plaza below. Arya was gone, flying over Cobbler’s Square with Aegon and Nymeria on Kios and Moonlight. Before he could fly to them, they made for Rhaenys’ Hill. Intent on reaching the Dragonpit first, Rhaegar spurred on Viserion to make haste.

The Street of Sisters did not seem so long when one flew above the clutter, unhindered by slow-moving wagon carts, children running aimlessly, or merchants seeking one’s coin. Viserion swung low and fast over the busy street before beating his wings for the subtle climb above the homes at the foot of Rhaenys’ Hill. Rhaegar dared not look to his left until the Dragonpit was beneath him and Viserion spread his wings to halt their progress.

Their landing was not the most graceful, but it was swift and earned them a small victory. Jon and Dany were the only ones to beat him, already walking toward the Unsullied captain waiting for them with his helm removed and a dozen men at his back. Rhaegar moved quickly to climb down his dragon’s gold and cream scales so Viserion could return to the sky and make room for the others to land.

His father and mothers had rebuilt the Seven Kingdoms, but the Dragonpit remained a ruin. Parts of its walls still stood high enough to prove a great dome once covered the entirety of the pit he marched across. It was never discussed, but Rhaegar was sure it would never be rebuilt. Dragons were not meant to be chained and locked away, vulnerable to the whims of a raging mob.

“My Prince,” Black Spear, first captain of the Unsullied assigned to protect the Dragonpit, greeted him with a bow. “Unsullied are ready to escort the princes and princesses to Red Keep.”

“I should like to inspect the barracks and the training yard,” Rhaegar responded, standing beside his younger brother and sister. While Rhaegar wore a red and black doublet invoking the colors of House Targaryen, he saw his brother keeping the colors of the Night’s Watch, like their father. _Black has always been his color._

“Unsullied guard the Dragonpit and House Targaryen, my Prince. It is mostly boys in the training yard,” Black Spear warned him. Rhaegar sensed the captain did not like the idea of the Unsullied being represented by green boys who had yet to earn the black armor.

“I understand, Captain. My father wishes to stay apprised of their training and the readiness of your men. He will visit himself, in the coming days,” Rhaegar added with a smile. _I pray he does not think we doubt his Unsullied’s fighting abilities._

“It would be our honor, my Prince,” Black Spear replied, bowing his head before walking off to order his men away. Rhaegar watched the four Unsullied march out of the pit in the direction of the barracks. Twenty or more Unsullied still remained, surrounding the pit with their spears and shields.

“I should like to stay and see the barracks for myself,” Dany announced as they watched their brothers and sisters land one by one, throwing up clouds of dust and dirt from the beat of the dragons’ wings.

“I expected nothing less, sister,” Rhaegar replied, never taking his eyes off Arya as she bid farewell to Rhaegal.

“I told you we would make it!” Arya reminded him with Senya and Sarra walking behind her.

“Aye,” Rhaegar agreed, stepping forward to embrace her and claim her full lips. They looked so inviting, Rhaegar had forgotten himself and almost kissed her in the middle of the Dragonpit. It was only at the last moment, he caught Arya’s raised eyebrow and stepped a safe foot away, maintaining the mummery. There were only Unsullied there to see them, but they would not take the chance. “Sometimes, I forget how fast the dragons can fly.”

“Are the horses not ready?” Arya inquired, looking over his shoulder for any sign of mounts that would carry them through the streets to Aegon’s Hill.

“Father told me to inspect the barracks and the training yard. I thought you would like to come with me. Do you not?” he asked, knowing her answer.

“Of course, I want to go with you,” Arya said, stepping forward to whisper something in his ear. “I will be your Queen one day and I promise you, I will not be one of the queens of old.”

Arya’s fire brought a smile to his face. Rhaegar knew his sister was like their mothers. She would not hesitate to fly into battle like their mother or Queen Rhaenys. He presumed she would even welcome a fight on the ground if it came to it. Queen Visenya had taught her well. Arya and Dany were better than most he had faced in the training yard.

Little time passed before Black Spear returned to escort them to the barracks that stood two hundred feet away, in the shadow of the broken ruins of the Dragonpit. The stone and roof of the three buildings looked like any other in King’s Landing, but their size and design could fool one to think they were great manses built for a magister from across the Narrow Sea. There were two great terraces and a dozen balconies, allowing the Unsullied to look out from Rhaenys’ Hill. The Unsullied did not live like nobles or even knights, but their quarters were more comfortable than the smallfolk’s.

The path from the Dragonpit to the Unsullied’s barracks was a winding one, cutting through garden and grove. Besides the royal gardens and the Red Keep itself, the Dragonpit was Rhaegar’s favorite place in the city. He was sure many in his family held a similar sentiment. Despite standing in the middle of a city with a population greater than one million, the Dragonpit provided a place of peace and quiet. The dragons were certain to make themselves heard and the Unsullied’s training yard provided he music of steel clashing with shield, but for the most part, it was always quiet on Rhaenys’ Hill.

Black Spear led them into the first barracks, greeting the few Unsullied that remained. Most of the soldiers had been sent away to protect the streets from the Mud Gate to the Red Keep. All that remained at the Dragonpit were those tasked with guarding the grounds and the Unsullied who spent most their time training the young boys to fight. Rhaegar made sure ask a question from every Unsullied they crossed paths with.

Rhaegar asked them about their training and where the greatest progress had been made. He asked about supply shortages and issues that troubled the captains. Little to his surprise, he heard no complaints or requests for more coin. Knowing their nature, Rhaegar was unsure if it was the Unsullied making due with what they had or there was truly nothing to be done to improve their readiness.

While telling Rhaegar and his siblings of the strengths and weaknesses of the Dragonpit’s perimeter, Black Spear led them toward the singing of steel meeting steel. The training yard was a large patch of dirt and small pebbles, partially hidden from the sun with elm trees providing the fighters with some shade. This wasn’t Rhaegar’s first time attending the training of Unsullied. Those that stood in the shade for too long were forced to fight in the sun for the rest of the day.

From the edge of the yard, Rhaegar watched the brutal and purposeful training. The seasoned warriors tasked with training the recruits showed no sympathy, striking hard and true at every boy that let his guard down. The recruits were all orphans, found unwelcome and unwanted in the cities and towns of Essos. They had no place to go and if the Unsullied deemed them trustworthy and loyal, they were sent on a ship to King’s Landing to train.

Unlike their predecessors, the boys training in the yard before him did not suffer the crueler lessons once given in the Bay of Dragons by the former masters. _They will make fine soldiers, great soldiers, but will they be the same as the ten thousand Unsullied freed from their chains in Astapor? How can they be?_

“Who is your best?” Rhaegar asked, taking the time to observe each boy wield their spear and shield. Some of them appeared his age while others looked as young as eight years.

“That one, the Lorathi,” Black Spear pointed to the far end of the yard, where one fighter stood against three, making quick work of his attackers. He looked quick, surefooted, and agile. The Lorathi’s fighting reminded Rhaegar of Grey Worm.

“They found him, starving in the alleys of Braavos. He does not like to speak with others, but he is a good fighter and he is loyal,” Sarra informed them before Black Spear could. The captain said nothing, for Sarra knew everything about the Unsullied.

“Do you wish to speak with him, my Prince?” Black Spear inquired, ready to signal an end to the fighting.

“No, leave him be. We must be on our way soon,” Rhaegar said, leaving the training yard for the main gate.

“Prince Rhaegar! Prince Eddard!” he heard the swooning maids call for them. There were six of them, all beautiful and of similar age, standing at the foot of the statue of his namesake in the King’s Square. Rhaegar willed a smile onto his lips and waved to the girls, earning more cheers and giggles.

“If only they knew,” Eddard sounded more annoyed than Rhaegar had felt. The smallfolk knew of Aegon and Nymeria. It was common knowledge they would wed, as well as Jon and Dany. Few knew of Eddard and Senya. Even fewer knew of Rhaegar and Arya.

“You could kiss her, here and now, for all to see,” Rhaegar spoke quietly after peering over his shoulder to spy his sisters’ unamused faces. _Senya hides it better than you, Arya._

“I will, after you tell mother and father of your betrothal,” Eddard replied with a grin as they rode through the square.

“After the King’s Tourney, but tell no one, especially Aegon,” he confided half the truth with his brother. Eddard was closest to him, not because they were born to Queen Daenerys, but because they were so similar. Aegon was sometimes too loud for them and Jon, too concerned with his swordsmanship. Rhaegar and Eddard could sit with a maester learning the histories of the Seven Kingdoms or train day and night with the Kingsguard.

“You mean to enter the lists,” Eddard said. _I shouldn’t have said anything._ “Do not worry, Rhaegar, your secret is safe with me. Do you plan to ride under our banner? Or will you enter as a mystery knight? I think Arya would enjoy that, being surprised.”

“She already knows. I promised her I would win her the tourney,” Rhaegar made sure no one was close enough to hear him before speaking. The crowds along the street and the ringing of the bells were more than enough to prevent onlookers from hearing his voice. _I do not want the entire city knowing. It would be all they speak of for moons._

“You promised her the crown of roses? You have never jousted before in your life,” Eddard replied with doubt in Rhaegar’s endeavor. It was hard to miss his brother’s skepticism. “And you want this to remain a secret until the tourney…that makes things difficult. You will need help, that is certain. Worry not, brother, I have a knight in mind who will help us.”

“And this knight, he can be trusted?” Rhaegar questioned, wondering who his brother had in mind.

“Aye, more than any I know,” Eddard said with a laugh and a glance over his shoulder. “I will help you train as well. Aegon is better than you think. Our brother is confident, sometimes too confident, but he is not wrong when he boasts of his skill in the joust. I have seen him with Ser Justin and Ser Martyn. If I had to place my coin on any for this tourney, it would be our brother or Ser Harys Penrose.”

“Is he as good as they say, Penrose?” Rhaegar asked, only having seen the knight once at the Tourney of Lannisport during the royal progress through the Westerlands. All Rhaegar could recall was Ser Harys rode well and won the tourney. _If I had known, I would have paid closer attention to the champions of all the tourneys we have attended._

“He wins every tourney he enters,” Eddard told him as they passed an alehouse with several drunken men staring at his sisters longer than he liked. Rhaegar moved his hand to the grip of his sword, ready to strike at any foe who thought they could have a princess of House Targaryen. He knew it was foolish and nothing would happen, but Rhaegar gripped his sword anyway.

“Then why has he never entered the King’s Tourney?” Rhaegar asked, curious to know why such a heralded rider would enter every tourney from Oldtown to Seagard, but not the most important one with the most gold for the winner.

“Chooses his opponents carefully, I suppose. I think it is safe to presume Ser Harys expects to win this tourney,” Eddard said.

“Thank you, brother,” Rhaegar said.

“For what?” Eddard replied with a genuine look of confusion.

“For promising to help me. I never cared for jousting, but I must win this tourney, for Arya,” Rhaegar explained, looking back at his sister again as she laughed at something Dany said. “I will also need armor.”

“I will ask the knight I have in mind. He will know which blacksmith can hold a secret,” Eddard swore as they approached Aegon’s Hill with the Red Keep looming ahead. Even from afar, they could see the main gate was open and the street cleared before the castle walls. Black banners with the sigil of House Targaryen hung from the ramparts, welcoming the return of their family.

Once they were through the gate and into the outer bailey, Rhaegar was greeted with the familiar sight of a busy Red Keep. Unsullied and household guard could be seen atop the battlements, outside the gatehouse, surrounding the yard along the walls, and up the stairs leading to the inner bailey. Stableboys came rushing forward, taking the reins of the garron he was given. Rhaegar was sure his favorite horse was still aboard one of the galleys, waiting to be brought ashore.

“Ser Garlan,” Rhaegar nodded to the approaching kingsguard.

“The King and Queens are in Maegor’s Holdfast. Your brothers and sisters as well,” Ser Garlan Tyrell informed Rhaegar and Eddard.

“Were there any troubles on the Blackwater?” Rhaegar asked as they started their climb up the winding stairs that led to the middle bailey.

“The winds were kind and the sea calm,” Ser Garlan answered, never keeping his eyes focused in a single direction. The knight was looking for threats, even inside the castle walls.

“And after everyone came ashore?” Eddard followed up.

“Thousands at Fishmonger’s Square, more along the Hook. The City Watch was needed to clear the mob outside the main gate, but I am sure those direwolves of yours would have scared them off if needed,” Garlan said.

“It appears we have guests,” Eddard mused, seeing the group of ladies walking across the middle bailey. As soon as one of ladies saw them enter the yard, Rhaegar saw her whisper to her friends. Then, all their eyes were on Rhaegar and his brother.

“From Dorne. Houses Yronwood, Wells, Fowler, and Lake, I think. They arrived the day before last. A guard mentioned a dozen knights from the Vale have already taken one of the inns near the Iron Gate. The inns and the alehouses will be full a moon before the tourney even begins,” Ser Garlan said as they crossed the yard.

“We should have stayed on Dragonstone,” Eddard sounded less than enthused to learn the Red Keep would be filled with lords, ladies, knights, and more within the next two moons.

“Is it so terrible, to have a castle full of Dornish beauties?” Ser Garlan asked as they walked toward Maegor’s Holdfast, leaving the Dornish girls behind them.

“No, it’s just…,” Eddard started, but held his tongue, thinking better of his words. Rhaegar knew what he intended to say.

“They aren’t Princess Visenya. Do not worry, Prince Eddard, once they learn their hopes are folly, they will turn to another prince or some lordling. We certainly won’t be short of them in the coming weeks,” Ser Garlan said as they passed four household guard protecting the gatehouse before Maegor’s Holdfast.

By the time they reached the top floor of Maegor’s Holdfast, the last of the servants had finished returning their wardrobe and belongings to the royal chambers. Rhaegar passed his little sisters, Allyria and Elia chasing after Vaella and Alysanne, before reaching his chambers.

Inside his chambers, Rhaegar was greeted by Frost, his white furred direwolf that looked just like Ghost. His wolf seemed desperate for his attention, having been forced to be parted from him on the journey across Blackwater Bay. As he scratched Frost behind his ear, he noticed Torrhen standing in the center of his small solar with a wooden practice sword in hand.

“How long have you been waiting in here?” Rhaegar asked, crossing the solar to ruffle his brother’s raven hair.

“Not long. Are you tired?” Torrhen asked as Rhaegar looked through the open door of his bedchambers. He could not see, but he was sure all his wardrobe had been stowed away and his bedchamber made ready for him by the maids.

“Tired? A little,” Rhaegar answered truthfully. Riding dragons was thrilling, but it could also be taxing if one flew further than a hundred miles.

“Will you spar with me? Brandon said no and Valarr is already sparring with Rickard. And Father has a Small Council meeting,” Torrhen pleaded, sounding desperate to find a partner.

“What about Daeron or Maelor?” he suggested, knowing they would be more suited to the task. _You would do better to fight them, brother._

“I don’t know where they are,” Torrhen replied, impatiently firming his hold on the grip of his sword.

“Aye, give me a moment…,” Rhaegar said, placing his sheathed sword upon a table in his solar before the door to his chamber swung open.

“Leave us, little brother,” Arya ordered Torrhen. No protest came as Torrhen hung his head in defeat, afraid to argue with their sister.

“I will come find you,” Rhaegar vowed as Torrhen left the solar, dragging his sword along the stone floor into the hallway. Arya left him little time to pity Torrhen before she pulled on his doublet and devoured his lips.

“We haven’t made love in here,” Arya whispered, looking up at him with a devious look in her eyes.

“We can’t,” Rhaegar said, as much as it pained him.

“We can,” Arya disagreed in a sultry tone.

“I want to. I do, but not now. We would be caught and…,” Rhaegar tried to finish, but Frost nudged his way between them. _What has gotten into him? He is never like this?_

“There you are. Your father and I are expecting you both in the Small Council Chamber,” their mother came in through the door in a red Essosi dress that looked to be styled in the fashion preferred by the women of Meereen. _What has she seen? Was Frost too late?_

“Should I dress in something more…,” Arya started, looking down at her riding attire.

“What you have on is fine. This isn’t a feast,” their mother replied, giving Arya a funny look before turning to Rhaegar. “Dragonstone…Is there anything we should know? Varys’ little birds have not reached him yet, or he has not told us.”

“The castle still stands, Mother,” Rhaegar said, having nothing to tell.

“And the Dragonpit?” she inquired.

“Black Spear showed us the boys they are training. Some are more promising than others, but I am not part of the Unsullied. Grey Worm would know better than I,” Rhaegar told his mother.

“Nevertheless, your father and I will see for ourselves on the morrow,” his mother said.

“Do you think it wise, Mother, to recruit these orphans to join the Unsullied? We do not know who they are or who holds their allegiance. And how could they ever become a true Unsullied without the training Grey Worm and the others went through?” Arya voiced her thoughts without holding back.

“And what? Do you want them turned to eunuchs and send them out into Flea Bottom to murder innocent babes?” their mother responded with some anger.

“That is not what I meant,” Arya replied.

“Grey Worm assures us they will be trained well enough and they are free to leave if they wish, but none have. I have spoken to our captains and the ones travelling Essos know what to look for. They know loyal orphans from spies and traitors,” their mother assured them with confidence.

“Daenerys?” Rhaegar heard his father’s voice before seeing him enter his solar. “They are waiting.”

“Do hurry along, children. Lateness will not be tolerated,” their mother returned her peering eyes to them both. It felt as if his mother could see through the mummery and knew everything about his feelings for Arya. Fearing his face would betray him, Rhaegar buried his fear of being discovered and turned his thoughts to the Small Council meeting.

“We will not be late,” Arya promised, earning a nod from their mother. They waited until she was gone with their father, headed toward the stairs at the end of the hallway.

“If you aren’t going to make love to me now, I will be waiting in my chambers tonight,” Arya whispered, seizing his lips again as her fingers did their best to make him hard.

“I can’t go to the Small Council like this,” Rhaegar found the will to back away. _We are becoming careless. She is bolder than before. It is different, all of it._

“Like what?” Arya teased him, reaching for his cock again.

“Arya, stop. Do not make me put Frost on you,” he lied. Both of them looked to the direwolf, who only quirked his head before sitting on the floor, looking to Arya. _Traitor._

“It seems you have no authority here, brother,” Arya said, capturing his lips one last time. “Now, let us get on with this meeting. There is likely to be a great deal of news regarding the city, and none of it good, I presume.”

“Maybe,” Rhaegar said, knowing King’s Landing was a far better place to live during his father’s reign. From the stories he had heard, the city was a relatively safe place to live during his grandfather’s rule, but those years were fewer than the bad. _We cannot let our parents’ progress go to waste._

“You think not?” Arya asked, looking on him with a hint of doubt.

“The city and its people have their faults, no doubt, but it could be worse. A woman can walk the streets without a certain fear of rape or worse. The thieves are not so bold and the streets are certainly cleaner than they were,” he gave his opinion, hoping his sister would agree.

“I pity the smallfolk, I do, but do not trust the people of King’s Landing, Rhaegar. They have betrayed our family before. The Dragonpit is a ruin because of these people and their faith. Their minds are easily changed. Remember that, when our time to rule comes,” Arya said, cupping his chin so that he looked her in the eyes.

“I’m not a fool, Arya,” he said, leaving a small peck on her lips.

“No, you are not. You will be a good king, like Father,” she said. _I pray you mean that._

“And you will be a great queen,” Rhaegar promised, stealing a moment to take in her beauty again. The longer he stared, the more he longed for nightfall and a night in her bed. “Best we leave, before Mother sends a herald or guard searching for us.”

**Queen Rhaenys Targaryen**

“Where are they? I told them their presence is expected,” Rhaenys asked Jon as they walked down the hallway leading to the Small Council Chamber. She could see Rhaegar and Arya already entering the chamber with Eddard and Senya.

“They are young and in love. I am sure you remember the feeling, sister,” Visenya countered as they walked past paintings of Aegon the Conqueror burning Harrenhal and Daeron I riding into Dorne.

“They had enough time to themselves on Dragonstone. They should consider themselves fortunate we did not leave Ser Jonothor to keep an eye on them,” Rhaenys replied, daring not to consider what all their children got up to in a half-empty Stone Drum.

“Your Grace,” Vaelon, the steward of their household in the Red Keep, curtsied with two maids following behind him. The man was a distant cousin of the Velaryons and entered their service after they reclaimed King’s Landing. Rhaenys wondered what was pressing enough to hold them up from a Small Council meeting.

“What is it? Tell me one of the children have not set the kitchens afire,” Rhaenys said, sure it had something to do with their children.

“No, your Grace. Ummm...,” Vaelon paused, looking unsure if he should say anything.

“Speak. We have important matters to attend,” Daenerys demanded, coming to stand beside Jon.

“Yes, your Grace. Lord Gerold Prester has been waiting in the entrance hall to the Throne Room for hours. He is demanding rooms for himself, his two sons, and the members of his household,” Vaelon braved to utter the Lord of Feastfires name.

“Tell Lord Gerold the Red Keep is not an inn. There are plenty in this city who will take his coin and provide more than adequate accommodations for him,” Rhaenys ordered the steward. Vaelon dared not say anything more of Lord Gerold Prester and scurried away down the hallway.

“That fool, he does not think to send a raven before arriving in the city,” Rhaenys fumed.

“He forgets his place. I remember how he spoke when we stayed at Feastfires. One would be forgiven if they assumed he was the Warden of the West, the way he boasted at feast,” Visenya recalled. Gerold Prester had become the Lord of Feastfires shortly before their progress through the Westerlands, after his father’s death. Rhaenys remembered the lord being deep into his cups, telling lies of his feats on the battlefield. Worse, she thought she caught the man eyeing her daughters during the feast in his hall.

“I can forgive a lord for lying about war or his House’s wealth, but I cannot forgive one of forty years asking to wed our daughter,” Rhaenys said. House Targaryen’s stay at Feastfires lasted a day and a half. Gerold Prester made the mistake of asking for Nymeria’s hand in marriage. Rhaenys contained her disgust and politely declined before the lord asked for Elia or Allyria. An hour after his mistake, the royal progress was on the road to Kayce. “I will not have that man sleeping within the same castle walls as our daughters.”

“Good, I thought we were late,” Rhaenys heard her son’s voice. She turned around to see Aegon and Nymeria walking at a brisk pace to join them. Nymeria could excuse it with her flight from Dragonstone, but Rhaenys knew better. She could tell her daughter’s hair was unkept because of Aegon.

“You were saved by a troublesome lord from the Westerlands. Now go, join your brothers and sisters,” Rhaenys demanded, nodding to the door guarded by two men of their household guard.

“There will be others,” Jon said as their children disappeared into the council chamber.

“And depending on the lord or lady, they will be treated as proper guests, until the tourney of course. All of the arrangements have already been made,” Rhaenys replied, knowing the guest chambers of the Red Keep would be overflowing for the tourney. The most powerful Houses and the staunchest supporters of House Targaryen would be given quarters within the castle.

“Shall we?” Jon asked, gesturing toward the chamber where their Small Council waited. Rhaenys nodded her head and moved ahead with Daenerys at her side. Both of the guards clad in their black armor remained as still as the gargoyles on Dragonstone as Rhaenys passed through the doorway.

Inside the chamber, the Small Council stood from their seats, looking to their King and Queens. At the nearest end of the table stood Lord Eddison Tollett, Ser Jorah Mormont, and Grandmaester Pylos. Opposite the knight from Bear Island and the Lord Commander of the City Watch stood Missandei, Grey Worm, Lady Arya Baratheon, and Ser Gendry Baratheon.

At the far end of the table, Lord Davos Seaworth stood to the right with Varys, Lord Monford Velaryon and Lord Ardrian Celtigar. Rhaenys walked with Daenerys to the left of the table, past Grey Worm and Missandei. Their children stood to their left, occupying the seats along the wall, away from the table. Lord Yohn Royce and Ser Barristan Selmy were standing next to Arya and Rhaegar, who claimed the seats at the far end of the table.

Each lord and lady bowed their heads as Rhaenys and Daenerys walked by, all save their children. Rhaenys took the chair at the corner of the table next to Rhaegar. Daenerys took the other corner seat while Jon and Visenya sat at the head of the table. They had tried to manage with a table that sat four monarchs at its end, but it seemed too large and made for awkward meetings.

Once Jon and Visenya were seated, their advisors followed while Ser Arthur Dayne and Ser Oswell Whent came to stand behind them in their shining armor and white cloaks. Ser Simon Sunglass, Brienne of Tarth, and Ser Garlan Tyrell stood at the door from whence they came.

“Lord Davos, the city?” Daenerys started the council meeting, asking the Hand sitting next to her for the goings and happenings of King’s Landing.

“Apologies, your Grace, but I think it best the Lord Commander of the City Watch recount his short rule of King’s Landing,” Davos Seaworth replied, leaning forward to look past the lords of the Small Council to Eddison Tollett. Rhaenys could see the former brother of the Night’s Watch was pleased neither by his brief command of the city nor having to sit on the Small Council meeting. _I do pray Lord Eddison smiles for his lady wife. If his face is as gloomy for her as it is for us, he will be needing another lady wife soon._

“Since your Graces have been away, we have put three of my men in the black cells. Caught them with more coin than a gold cloak should have. The captains and I suspect bribes from captains at the docks. Another four men were let go, none of them good. Fifty new men have been hired to help increase our presence in Flea Bottom and River Row. We have a new band of thieves raiding River Row and Fishmonger’s Square,” Edd Tollett said with a never-changing grim look about his face. Rhaenys did find it surprising to see the lord without any black in his clothes. Despite the wealth that came with his title and position, she always saw the commander of the gold cloaks preferred black wardrobe like Jon.

“How long have these thieves plagued the fishmarkets?” Visenya asked.

“Three moons now, your Grace,” Edd replied with a bitter tone. Some may have thought the man was displeased by Visenya’s question, fearing a threat to his title and position. Rhaenys knew better, understanding the last Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch was displeased with himself and his men.

“Three moons and you have not caught them?” Yohn Royce added. _He thinks he can bring these bandits to justice._

“Aye, these thieves are no fools, all of them from King’s Landing. They have lookouts and they know my men by face and the Unsullied…well, they do not blend in. Half of them children…I thought Lord Varys would be of help,” Edd responded, turning to the Master of Whispers.

“A terrible thing, stealing from the old and vulnerable at the market. But why? Why should my little birds tell of your thieves when they have such better songs to sing? Unless of course the Lord Commander of the City Watch knows something I do not? A plot by fishmarket thieves to make away with the royal fleet? Or worse, steal the Iron Throne? I think they may find a ship or throne more difficult to carry away than a few coins,” Varys answered with such a soft tone, one could almost miss how dismissive the Spider sounded at the use of his spies to locate a band of thieves. Rhaenys did not miss it. She learned long ago, Varys had a talent for sounding like a friend even when he was denying another’s request for assistance.

“The Spider cannot find a band of thieves?” Yohn Royce mocked Varys, attempting to bait Varys into proving his worth. Rhaenys had not missed the Lord of Runestone’s contempt for Varys. Despite years of sitting the same council, Bronze Yohn’s mistrust of Varys never waned.

“You wound me, Lord Royce,” Varys feigned his outrage with a hand over his heart. _He does not say it, but I am sure one or two or all the thieves are his spies, if not the entire city._

“I can send more Unsullied to the markets,” Grey Worm offered.

“We can send a hundred soldiers. It will not matter. They have lookouts and will see your men wherever they go. We tried following them once, but they lose us on the roofs and through the alleys,” Edd replied.

“We have spent enough time on petty thieves. Lord Monford, you have men from Hull and Spicetown, unknown to merchants and dockhands of King’s Landing?” Jon finally spoke up, looking to their Master of Ships until he nodded his head. “Send them to Lord Eddison and make plans to send them into the market. They will watch for the thieves, let them steal a few times, and with some patience, follow them back to their homes or wherever they stay.”

“What else is there?” Rhaenys asked, looking to Eddison Tollett.

“The King’s Gate and the Gate of the Gods. We will need stonemasons to make some repairs along the parapets. There are some minor disputes you may hear of from the Street of Steel. I expect at least one of the blacksmiths to seek an audience with your Graces. We have also had to deal with a septon demanding the outlaw of brothels,” Edd said, grinning at his final piece of news.

“What will the septon ask for next? We rid the Seven Kingdoms of alehouses?” Ser Ardrian jested as half the table laughed at the foolish notion. Rhaenys only smirked, wondering if the septon had been sent by The Most Devout or if he was simply a septon with a hopeless cause.

“There is also the matter of the growing numbers camped outside the city walls,” Ser Jorah Mormont ended the laughter with his stern voice.

“Aye,” Eddison Tollett agreed.

“Already?” Daenerys asked, surprised there were not enough inns and brothels to house travelers from across the Seven Kingdoms.

“Their numbers are few, your Grace. Mostly farmers and merchants and other smallfolk wanting to see the tourney and sell their wares. For now, there are only a few hundred camped outside the Gate of the Gods,” Eddison answered.

“Send some of your men on patrol. The King’s peace should extend beyond the walls of King’s Landing. We trust you will know the appropriate number of men to send,” Rhaenys ordered, earning a nod from Edd Tollett.

“And what of the plans for the tourney?” Visenya inquired. Rhaenys only half-listened as Edd informed them of the number of guards that would be assigned to the gatehouses, which captains would be in charge of the tourney grounds, and how the patrols along the streets of the city would change.

As Edd explained his strategy, similar to the ones from previous King’s Tourneys, Rhaenys carefully observed Rhaegar and Arya. Both were attentive, listening to every word coming out of the Lord Commander’s mouth. She was disappointed to see Aegon was not as focused as his older brother and sister.

Part of Rhaenys was happy to see Aegon’s eyes constantly finding their way to Nymeria, but she also wanted him to mature. He was to rule his own castle one day and she knew every Small Council meeting was a chance to learn invaluable lessons from herself, Jon, Daenerys, Visenya, and all their advisors. It was only when Aegon finally caught her judgemental eyes that he ended the lustful looks toward his sister.

While Eddison Tollett carried on with news of a Pentoshi opening a brothel near the Iron Gate and recent repairs to the sewers underneath Cobbler’s Square, Rhaenys’ thoughts fell to the dragon eggs. She tried to imagine what each of them would look like. She longed to see a baby dragon that she could hold in her hands as Jon and Daenerys described. Rhaenys prayed every egg would hatch and give her children strong dragons that would grow into great beasts that would prowl the skies above King’s Landing with Myrax, Kios, Moonlight, and the rest.

“What else?” Visenya asked after the Lord Commander of the City Watch finished informing them of the numbers at the orphanages in Flea Bottom and the need of new cobblestones on a street between the Old Gate and the Dragon Gate.

“Sisterton,” Lord Davos Seaworth spoke up, pausing to consider his next words. “Lord Royce Coldwater has sent a raven to the Eyrie, demanding fifty-thousand gold dragons from Lord Godric. He claims the Borrells are protecting smugglers and thieves who are raiding his smallfolk’s catches when they return to port.” _He isn’t wrong about the smugglers, no doubt._

“I know Lord Royce and his sons. Good, honorable men. The same cannot be said for House Borrell. Old Godric plays the fool, but he cannot be trusted. There are more thieves, smugglers, and pirates on the Sisters than there are smallfolk,” Yohn Royce said with contempt written across his face for Godric Borrell. After years of loyal service and honest counsel, Rhaenys learned there were a great number of Houses and lords and knights the Master of Laws held in low regard.

“They say for every coin Lord Godric collects from his people, he adds four more to his coffers from the smugglers,” Lord Ardrian Celtigar added, looking pleased to hear of another House demanding something be done about House Borrell and the Sisters. Ardrian Celtigar had complained many times of the ships and captains given safe haven in the Sisters, evading the tax collectors up and down the Narrow Sea.

“Does Lord Harrold plan to ask for our intervention?” Rhaenys asked, looking to the Spider. She knew there was no raven from the Eyrie carrying this news. This came from one of Varys’ little birds.

“No, your Grace. Lord Harrold has not sent a raven and five of his knights are riding for Snakewood as we speak. They plan to sail with Terrance Lynderly and treat with Godric Borrell at Sisterton. I am afraid their warnings will fall on deaf ears,” Varys answered. _House Borrell thinks they and their lands small enough to go unnoticed._

“Lord Godric is a stubborn and prideful man,” Davos added.

“Greedy,” Ardrian Celtigar corrected the Hand.

“Lord Varys, make sure word of a fleet preparing to sail for the Sisters is gathering at Dragonstone reaches Sisterton. If Lord Godric has any sense, he will rid his islands of the smugglers and pirates,” Rhaenys commanded. This was a matter for the Lord of the Eyrie, but this was more than a dispute between two lords of the Vale. The smugglers and pirates hiding under House Borrell’s protection inflicted a cost on the entirety of the Seven Kingdoms and the ports of Essos.

“House Waynwood has two more knights in its service, Gwyneth Corbray is betrothed to Qyle Belmore, Lady Betha Ruthermont is with child again, and Old Anchor has built onto its great keep,” Davos continued with news from the Vale before turning to the North. “Lord Stark will soon ride south with his bannermen. Men from the Shadow Tower claim there are more and more direwolves in the mountains. Lord Varell Hoarfrost of Hoarfrost Hill says his men have seen the Children of the Forest as close as ten miles from his castle. Queenscrown has seen its best harvest since winter and the smallfolk have built twenty more stone houses in the town. One of Lord Glover’s daughters is to wed an Umber, Lord Helman Tallhart’s uncle, Denys Tallhart, is dead, and more free folk have come to settle outside Winterhall.”

“Grandmaester Pylos, be sure to send a raven to Torrhen’s Square. Let House Tallhart know we mourn for their loss. Denys Tallhart was a good man and House Targaryen will remember what he did for our House, the North, and the Realm,” Visenya instructed the maester sitting near the end of the table. Rhaenys could not recall Denys Tallhart, but was not surprised her sister remembered. Visenya knew all the lords and ladies of the North, even the ones of lesser Houses with little power, wealth, or influence.

“Yes, your Grace,” Pylos replied, keeping his words short, unlike his predecessor. Even if Rhaenys could forget Pycelle’s treachery, she detested the man and his many opinions. Pylos was a far better grandmaester, knowing he better served House Targaryen overseeing the rookery, maintaining their libraries, and guiding the education of the princes and princesses.

Pylos and five of his hand-picked maesters from Oldtown were the ones who taught their children mathematics, histories, sciences, astronomy, economics, warcraft, medicines, and higher mysteries. Rhaenys never found a reason to doubt the grandmaester or the other maesters, considering none of her children seemed to struggle attaining greater knowledge.

With Jon and her fellow Queens, Rhaenys took an active role teaching her children what the maesters could not. Jon taught their sons and some of their daughters warcraft. Visenya taught them histories and Daenerys taught them of the smallfolk. Rhaenys taught her children the intricacies of court and how to handle the nobility. All of them took part in teaching their children how to rule.

“Continue, Lord Davos,” Daenerys instructed their Hand, seated to her left.

“The boy claiming to be a Frey bastard has demanded Lord Edmure give him the Crossing and name him Lord of the Twins and House Frey. The lad has found himself a small following above the Green Fork. He sent a rider to Seagard, asking a raven be sent to King’s Landing to demand he be legitimized by his Grace,” Davos continued, shuffling the pieces of parchment in his hands.

“The Twins belong to House Tully and Lord Edmure’s second son. Do we even know if this bastard’s claims are true? He is son to Walder Frey’s second or third son? Or another? I cannot remember,” Daenerys said with a clear disinterest in granting this bastard’s request.

“Impossible to say, my Queen. The late Lord Frey and his sons had so many bastards, it is possible I suppose. Mayhaps one slipped away, unnoticed from the Twins,” Varys answered, looking to Arya Stark like everyone else seated at the table.

“The Freys are all dead,” Arya Stark said in a tone as sure as a devout septon proclaiming his belief in the Seven. “This boy is a liar.” _Who would have thought the day would come, someone would pretend to be a Frey?_

“It matters not,” Jon finally spoke up, commanding the council’s attention. “Daenerys is right, the Twins will go to Edmure’s second son. We will let Riverrun deal with this problem.”

Even if the boy were a trueborn Frey, they would still deny his claim to the Twins. After House Frey’s betrayal of the Targaryen loyalists in the War of the Four Kings, they would ensure the crossing was held by a loyal House. House Tully remained true and faithful to their oaths. Rhaenys decided with Jon, Daenerys, and Visenya long ago the Twins would be ruled by a son of Edmure Tully.

“Is there more from the Riverlands?” Visenya asked.

“Yes, your Grace. A raven came this morning,” Davos said, holding up the parchment with a broken seal of black wax. “From Wayfarer’s Rest, Lord Karyl Vance asks for your Graces’ assistance in finding his eldest daughter a lord to betroth. He goes on about the lordlings in the Riverlands and how he has found none of them worthy.”

“He has the entire Riverlands to find a lord husband for his daughter and he cannot find one?” Monford Velaryon asked, sounding unconvinced by Lord Karyl’s plea for assistance.

“Houses Erenford, Terrick, and Grell all have heirs of similar age to Lady Liane. And all of them without betrothals,” Pylos added at the end of the table.

“Does Lord Karyl and his daughter plan to attend the tourney?” Jon asked Davos Seaworth, earning a nod from the Lord Hand. “What do you think?”

“Why must Liane Vance wed a lord of the Riverlands? There are six other kingdoms,” Davos replied.

“Lord Harlan Pryor has a son. If he is as honorable as his lord father, Lady Liane will not find a better lord husband,” Yohn Royce suggested. _Pebble is far away and House Pryor offers Lord Karyl little._

“Harlan Pryor’s son is honorable, no doubt, but the road to Pebble is long. Some would say long enough for a lady born at Wayfarer’s Rest to doubt such a match. An island in the Bite is not a castle in the Riverlands. If Lord Karyl has great affection for his daughter, he will wish to see her wed to another lord,” Varys suggested, much to Yohn Royce’s disapproval.

“Rhaenys?” Jon turned to her, asking for her opinion.

“I remember Liane Vance. A sweet girl with a pretty smile. She made a blanket for Allyria with a dragon on it. She was kind and I think we should find her a perfect match. Her father may not like it, but I have a certain lordling close to Wayfarer’s Rest in mind,” Rhaenys offered, thinking of the best political match for the girl. She truly wanted to find a good match for Liane Vance, but Rhaenys preferred the match be an heir to a House in the Westerlands.

“Lord Tytos’ son?” Daenerys caught on to Rhaenys’ plan to betroth Liane Vance to Ryon Brax. _From what I recall, the boy looked like a warrior and comely enough for a beautiful lady._

“If Lord Karyl wished his daughter to be wed to the heir of Hornvale, he would not need to send a raven to King’s Landing,” Jon said.

“There is still bad blood between those two,” Gendry Baratheon spoke up. Rhaenys knew she could trust Gendry’s thoughts on the matter, considering the years he spent fighting in the Riverlands against the westermen. “Lord Tytos lost two cousins and a nephew to the Vance’s at the Golden Tooth. House Vance lost a son near Pinkmaiden. I cannot say if he was slain by a Brax soldier or not, but Tytos Brax was one of the commanders at the battle.”

“These Houses fought together in the North and have kept the peace since. I will make sure Tytos Brax and Karyl Vance see reason when they arrive for the tourney. Grandmaester Pylos, I will write the raven to Wayfarer’s Rest. Lord Karyl will rest easy after certain assurances are made,” Rhaenys informed the council, earning her fellow rulers’ agreement.

“We have nothing new to say of the Iron Islands,” Davos continued, laying a piece of parchment aside. Rhaenys prayed they would continue to hear little to nothing from the Iron Islands. Yara Greyjoy is not her father, but Rhaenys knew there were still Ironborn who wished to return to the old way.

“Sebaston Farman has sent half his ships to Lannisport. Lord Jaime has called for increased patrols along the western coast and the guard at Lannisport has increased,” Davos said, surprising no one. After the small attack on the Arbor, many lords were increasing the guard at their ports and sending forth war galleys to patrol their coastlands.

“Princess Arianne and Lord Edric have reached Highgarden. Desmond Hutcheson welcomed his first granddaughter. Lord Hastwyck’s niece is now betrothed to Lord Pommingham’s second son. Houses Fossoway, Tarly, and Ashford have sent their septons back to Oldtown. Some of the lords are growing nervous,” Varys said. _Good. Those who are not loyal to our House will still fear us more than the Faith._

“These septons…are they preaching the same filth as the septons in Oldtown?” Visenya asked with an expressionless face that did well to hide her displeasure for the Faith.

“Some of them, my Queen. Samwell Tarly was the first to send a raven. Apparently, the smallfolk on his lands kept away from their septs after words were spoken against House Targaryen,” Varys replied.

“And this comes from Sam? What of your spies?” Visenya asked, not entirely trusting the observations of one lord, even if it was Samwell Tarly. Rhaenys was interested to hear, knowing Varys had spies that would either confirm or deny the smallfolk’s rebuke.

“They sing a similar song,” Varys confirmed.

“The Devout will only grow more desperate. They know half the people have never seen the inside of a sept in years. And half of the people who have are loyal to your Graces,” Davos added his opinion. _More desperate and reckless._

“Desperate enough to reform the Faith Militant?” Monford Velaryon asked to no one in particular.

“Let them. We’ll have all their heads on spikes before a moon’s turn,” Ardrian Celtigar added in a tone as cold as a winter wind. Rhaenys was reminded of how the Lord of Claw Isle treated the Sparrows.

“Let us not speak of war until the first man has picked up his shield and sword. For now, we will continue to watch and listen. The Starry Sept and Hightower’s influence is contained to the south,” Jon said with a sure confidence. Rhaenys shared Jon’s belief the Faith’s teachings and influence would not spread north of Bitterbridge or east of Ashford. The lords and smallfolk of the Seven Kingdoms still worshipped the Seven, but most either loved or feared House Targaryen more. It was only in Oldtown and parts of the Reach where the Most Devout’s influence remained stronger than Rhaenys would prefer.

After further discussions on various concerns in the Reach, Rhaenys listened to Varys inform them of news from the Stormlands and Dorne. Most of his information was of little significance, requiring sparing advice from their council. Gendry Baratheon was the most helpful amongst the Small Council when it came to matters regarding the Stormlands. When the council’s focus turned to Dorne, Rhaenys’ knowledge and familiarity with the Dornish Houses was enough to handle small matters.

“Ser Jorah, tell us, is there any news from the Bay of Dragons?” Visenya asked, turning their focus from the increasing number of Lysene galleys and cogs sailing up the Brimstone to port at Hellholt. Rhaenys could tell whatever the knight had learned of the Bay of Dragons, it was nothing good.

“I am afraid so, your Grace,” Ser Jorah said hesitantly, casting his eyes toward Missandei seated across from him.

“What is it?” Visenya asked.

“The sons of Houses Quazzar, Dhazak, and Yherizan led a small rebellion, your Grace,” Missandei said, leading Rhaenys and her sister to look to Varys for answers. Before they could ask why they had not heard of the rebellion sooner, Missandei continued, “They are dead, your Grace. A captain from the Stormcrows arrived four days ago with word of the failed rebellion. They raised a company of sellswords and attempted to take the gold mines. One of their men betrayed them and Daario Naharis and the Second Sons killed all the sellswords. The Stormcrows arrested the traitors and their heads are on spikes above the city gates.”

Rhaenys would have felt pity for the sons of the old families of Meereen if she were ignorant to their intentions toward the freed men. From what she could recall of the three Houses mentioned, the traitors could not be more than five years older than Rhaegar. _Fools, all of them. Did they not learn from their fathers’ mistakes?_

“Was it just sellswords fighting for them?” Jon asked. Rhaenys knew he feared a return of the Sons of the Harpy or another resistance group that resented the elevated status of former slaves in Meereen.

“The captain said so, but Daario Naharis has kept one of the conspirators alive for questioning…Rhazdan Dhazak. Daario sent the captain away before he was finished questioning the traitor,” Missandei answered without any sense of sympathy for the man facing certain torture.

When Rhaenys looked at the faces around the table, Ser Barristan Selmy held a pained look on his face, clearly disagreeing with Daario’s methods of discovering secrets. Davos Seaworth shared a similar look of displeasure, but said nothing. Their Hand did not condone such measures, but he understood certain actions were necessary to maintain House Targaryen’s rule across the Narrow Sea. This Meereenese noble was not the first to be tortured by Daario Naharis and he certainly would not be the last.

“I will speak with this captain before evenfall,” Jon declared, no longer showing any apprehension toward the methods used to keep the peace in Meereen. The attempt on their children’s lives in Meereen and Pentos had changed Jon. Rhaenys noticed it. Daenerys and Visenya noticed it as well. Jon was a fair and just King, but he no longer showed mercy to their enemies in Essos. Their assassins still hunted men from the Iron Bank, slavers who escaped their justice, and a few magisters who stood against them.

“Did this captain bring any good news from Meereen?” Daenerys asked with the sound of hope in her voice.

“The Meereenese army now patrols the streets and guards the city gates. The Stormcrows and Second Sons are maintaining their numbers and holding the pyramid district. Yunkai’s old copper mine is running dry, but Maklaz zo Taqqar and the Yunkish council believe the silver mines in the western hills will make up for its loss,” Missandei said, to Rhaenys’ relief. The Bay of Dragons was a source of great wealth and a prospering economy aided their banishment of slavery. Losing a mine and its incomes could upset the current peace.

“The rumors of a pirate king on the Isle of Cedars were true. Astapor and Elyria sent their fleets to Velos and Ghozai. Twelve ships were taken and the pirates were put to the sword, but the Astapori captains think some escaped,” Missandei continued.

“Escaped to the Basilisk Isles, most likely,” Jorah Mormont added, earning a nod of agreement from Grey Worm.

“There is still the matter of Elyria’s sewers,” Ardrian Celtigar reminded them of the city’s request for coin to expand its sewers. Elyria was not a prosperous city and would need to borrow from House Targaryen to fund such a project.

“We will discuss Elyria on the morrow,” Rhaenys told their Master of Coin. _Mayhaps I should have some of our children join us. They need to learn how to maintain our bank._ “Ser Jorah?”

“The Qohorik have begun to resettle Ar Noy as promised,” Jorah Mormont said, reminding Rhaenys there were still many lands within their kingdom she had yet to see. Ar Noy was a ruined city Jon and Daenerys wished to repopulate so that Qohor’s influence was strengthened down the Qhoyne.

“Pentoshi sailors say some of the smallfolk in the Flatlands have left their villages and settled in Ny Sar,” Monford Velaryon added. Rhaenys could not be sure, but she guessed the smallfolk’s ancestors once called the shores of the Rhoyne home. The river and its surrounding lands were a far safer place now than before their reign.

Lord Sivero and the Norvoshi had already begun to rebuild the once great city of Ny Sar where the Rhoyne met the Noyne. The palace of Nymeria’s namesake and most of the city would forever remain a ruin. Rhaenys hoped a new city would rise around the ruins during her rule.

“Lord Varys, Ser Jorah, keep us apprised of Ny Sar and Ar Noy and the lands to the south,” Jon reminded their advisors of the importance they placed on securing the Rhoyne from Dagger Lake to Selhorys. “Now, if that is all, my Queens and I must receive our guests from Braavos.”

“Your Grace,” each of their advisors echoed, standing from their seats at the Small Council table as Rhaenys stood with her husband and fellow Queens.

King’s Landing looked peaceful, even beautiful at night. Rhaenys gazed in admiration at the sight below. Candlelight and hearths glowed in the windows of shops, homes, inns, and brothels. The streets were black and empty under the night sky, filling the air with the disturbing silence of a sleeping city with only the faint sound of small waves crashing into the rocks below the Red Keep.

This was Rhaenys’ ritual, a habit she picked up from her family’s time in Meereen. After sharing the night and her bed with her King, she would always find her way to her corner of the terrace outside their bedchambers. Sometimes she wandered onto the terrace with a fine Dornish red or vintage Arbor gold, other times she did not. This night, Rhaenys held a glass of Dornish red, gifted to her by Arianne Martell.

With a perfect view of Blackwater Bay and city streets from Fishmongers Square to the King’s Gate, Rhaenys leaned against the marbled parapet, sipping her wine. Her heart still beat like a pounding drum from their lovemaking, but Rhaenys allowed the wine to calm her lust and the cool air to chill her skin, covered in a sheen of sweat. With her dark brown hair unbraided, cascading down her back, Rhaenys could feel the sea winds occasionally blowing on her loose tendrils.

It was not habit alone that kept Rhaenys awake, unable to fall asleep in the arms of her King. Nine days had passed since they had returned to the Red Keep and for nine nights, Rhaenys punished herself for what she had said. Visenya had forgiven her and told all was forgotten. Rhaenys could not forget and neither could she forgive herself. _I am the worst kind of person. Who could say that to a mother? A mother as great as Visenya?_

“I forget sometimes…how quiet it is. The city,” Visenya clarified, sneaking up unheard to stand beside. Her sister looked like the Valyrian queen men from Lannisport to New Ghis dreamed of. Visenya’s hair fell down her back like a waterfall of molten silver, glowing in the moonlight, while her amethyst eyes remained unmistakable in the darkness. While not as large as her own, Visenya’s breasts were pleasant enough for herself and Jon.

“Yes…yes, it is,” Rhaenys agreed, taking her eyes off her sister’s pale, naked skin to gaze once again upon the streets and alleys of King’s Landing. “This is my favorite part. Night is ending and the morning, beginning. Soon, the fishermen and the dockhands will appear from their homes, passing the odd drunk stumbling from an alehouse or a gold cloak patrolling the streets.”

“What happens, when the drunkard, gold cloak, and fisherman cross paths?” Visenya asked, lifting the glass of wine from her fingers to steal a sip. She seemed to like it.

“I don’t know. Most times, they pass each other without saying a word, I suppose,” Rhaenys confessed. At this hour, Rhaenys realized most men kept to themselves, either too tired or too hurried to begin their day. It made her wonder what life was like for the smallfolk. She could try and imagine, but Rhaenys guessed she could never truly know. _I have never wanted for coin, food, or shelter. So many know that and I do not._

“I like to think all the streets in the city are as peaceful as River Row is right now. Silly, isn’t it?” Visenya admitted, handing Rhaenys the glass of wine.

“Mayhaps,” Rhaenys laughed, setting aside the glass of wine.

“It isn’t the peaceful sight of a sleeping King’s Landing that keeps you awake,” Visenya observed after a long pause. Rhaenys could sense her sister knew the obvious. “We share a bed and we share our husband, but we haven’t shared each other. Not since…”

Rhaenys flinched, unable to look her sister in the eyes. It made her sick just thinking of her accusation and how she had hurt her only little sister. It was Visenya’s hand covering her own that finally forced Rhaenys to open her eyes and look at her sister.

“Since I hurt you,” Rhaenys finished her sister’s statement.

“I told you, it is forgotten. You are my sister. I love you,” Visenya said, stepping closer so that Rhaenys had nowhere to flee and escape the shame that was drowning her. “It isn’t the first time your fiery temper has gotten the better of you and it will not be the last. I do not care, Rhae, do you hear me? I do not care.”

“What I said…it was ugly. And every time I look at you,” Rhaenys stopped herself, fighting away the tears that almost formed. “Every time I see your face, I see my betrayal. I see the hurt from that.”

“The hurt is gone, Rhaenys. Whatever wounds you see, they are there because you are trying to punish yourself. Don’t,” Visenya demanded before placing a careful hand on her neck and titling her head to capture Rhaenys’ lips. Rhaenys trembled as their lips touched and their breasts pressed against one another. _I should punish myself. I deserve it._

“Visenya, I…,” Rhaenys searched for the words that were worthy of the apology her sister deserved.

“Rhaenys, stop. I am not a poet and neither are you,” Visenya said, stifling her apology with another kiss. “If you insist on torturing yourself and apologizing to me until we grow old, then you can start by returning to our bed with me. And on the morrow…do not remain on the other side of the bed. I am beginning to grow tired of Jon and Daenerys.” _Now, that is a lie, sister._

With a silent nod, Rhaenys followed Visenya across the terrace into their bedchamber. Careful not to wake a sleeping Daenerys with her arm draped across Jon’s beating chest, Rhaenys slowly lifted the silk sheets. Visenya found her way to Jon’s right side, quickly entangling her leg with his.

Rhaenys took the moment to admire each of them. Her eyes rested on Daenerys’ full lips before moving to Jon’s hard muscles and finally, Visenya’s soft cheeks that remained uncovered. It was only when Visenya peaked over her shoulder than Rhaenys relented and joined her sister in the bed. She went to sleep with plans to wake her sister in the morning with a pleasurable gift.

**Princess Nymeria Targaryen**

“This is ridiculous,” Nymeria complained, tired of every of jolt that shook the wheelhouse carrying herself and Senya. She felt like a prisoner, locked away, unable to ride down the streets of King’s Landing on her Dornish mare. The shouts of her brothers’ names from the common folk surprised her. _I would have abandoned this party the moment we set out from the gate._

“Mother wanted us in our best dresses,” Senya reminded her. Their mother, Queen Rhaenys, had come to them after breakfast and handed them the task of visiting the Hall of Heroes. Nymeria protested more than Senya, but relented when her mother told her small gestures were important for the smallfolk. She remembered her mother’s words. _The people do not care for absent rulers. This time, it falls on your shoulders to represent our House. And Nymeria, no riding clothes. They are expecting a Valyrian princess._

“It is better than another day in the Throne Room, I suppose,” Nymeria mused, looking out the open window at her shoulder. The wheelhouse was slow, passing a bakery with a little girl no older than ten years standing outside its door. The girl called for Princess Arya, but Nymeria waved to the girl anyway.

“I do not mind it, seeing lords and knights from across the Realm. And the magisters from Essos…Did you see the Qohoriks’ monkeys? Court was becoming rather dull on Dragonstone,” Senya voiced her opinion.

“I do not care for Damon Yronwood and his friends. He thinks because I have Martell blood I will prefer a Dornish husband,” Nymeria said. Ever since their return to the Red Keep, she felt like she could not escape the Dornish boys’ relentless advances and preying eyes.

“Is he blind and deaf? Or just a fool? Everyone knows you are with Egg,” Senya asked.

“I don’t think he cares,” Nymeria guessed. The Yronwood boy was sure of himself, too sure for her liking.

“He will care when Egg’s fists are bloodied with his blood,” Senya said, knowing how protective Aegon could be. _That is why I have not told him._

“Have any of them tried to court you?” Nymeria asked, sure in her belief that some of them had.

“No,” Senya responded with a pleasant smile.

“No?” Nymeria wondered how her sister had kept the vultures away.

“I am the septa in our family, remember?” Senya giggled. Her sister’s wardrobe was conservative, but her beauty was impossible to hide. Nymeria thought Senya’s face was enough to capture any boy’s heart. _Are breasts and cunts and asses all they lust for?_

“So some would believe,” Nymeria laughed, knowing her sister did not act like a septa with Eddard. “Tell me again, why are Arya and Dany not with us?”

“They have the honor of hosting Ladies Fowler and Lake in the gardens. I think their daughters and nieces are there as well,” Senya replied with an evil grin. They both reveled in the knowledge that their sisters were facing a long and tedious day over tea and ladylike conversations in the gardens.

When Nymeria returned her attention to the world outside the wheelhouse, she found their party passing through the King’s Square. The center of the city looked rather empty with a mere hundred people in sight, going about their day. It was only the three dozen smallfolk closest to their path that took notice and stopped to steal a glimpse of a Targaryen princess.

Before they reached the street leading them toward Visenya’s Hill, Nymeria nodded her head as they passed a knight in polished armor atop a great brown destrier. She did not know if he could see her through the window of the wheelhouse, but she appreciated the knight’s respectful bow. _He is sure to visit the Red Keep before evenfall._

“Did you know that knight?” Senya inquired.

“A white tree on a green field, five arrows coming from its leaves,” Nymeria answered, looking at the banner held by the knight’s squire before they disappeared.

“I do not know the sigil. Likely from the Riverlands or the Vale,” Senya replied.

Where the street from the Red Keep to the King’s Square was quiet and sparse with people, the street climbing Visenya’s Hill was loud and full of smallfolk. This time, she heard her name from the old and young alike. Their visit to the Dragonhall was no surprise. Nymeria surmised loose lips from a gold cloak sent ahead to guard the hall told the people of their impending arrival.

“We are here, my Princess,” the captain of their guard spoke through the window to their wheelhouse almost as soon as it came to a halt. Nymeria took a moment to admire her sister’s red dress with black accents around her waist and shoulders. It was very much unlike her own Essosi dress made of violet silks, but it suited Senya.

“Very well,” Nymeria bid the captain to open the door as she stood to smooth the wrinkles in her dress.

“Here,” Aegon offered his hand, appearing in front of her before she could accept the household guard’s assistance. “You look beautiful, sister.”

“Not here, Aegon,” she warned her brother. His eyes were those of a hungry wolf, ready to devour its prey. Nymeria thought it was best not to make a scene in front of the smallfolk. They loved each other, but it would not be seen as appropriate for them to show their affections in public.

“Have some faith in me,” Aegon replied, taking her arm as they walked past the line of gold cloaks separating them from the smallfolk huddled at the street’s edge. Unlike the Hook or Flea Bottom, trees lined the streets surrounding Visenya’s Hill. Little children hung from the limbs of trees at the end of the street, providing them a view of Aegon’s Hill and the plaza that stood before the great doors of the Dragonhall.

With Aegon escorting her, Nymeria walked the final yards of the cobblestoned street that opened into the great plaza. The entrance to the plaza was marked by four marbled statues of dragons, each of them different. One dragon spread its wings with open jaws while another looked to be racing for the sun, high in the sky. These statues filled the plaza and the gardens that surrounded the great hall that stood as a symbol of their parents’ legacy.

Targaryen household guards filled the plaza, standing with spear and shield amongst the statues and fountain pools. With the exception of the men and women who maintained the grounds, their guards were the only ones within sight. On a normal day, Nymeria imagined the fountains were flanked by mothers watching their children running under the water spitting from a dragon or direwolf’s mouth.

“Ser Olyvar,” Nymeria called for the captain of their guard.

“Yes, my Princess?” the knight of thirty came forward in his black armor and cloak.

“Allow as many as you can through,” Nymeria ordered, earning a look of confusion and disagreement on Ser Olyvar Waters’ face.

“Princess, we were ordered to keep you safe. Ser Barristan, the King, they…,” Ser Olyvar began to protest until Nymeria raised her hand.

“And my mother, Queen Rhaenys, commanded we be seen by our people. The people cannot see us if they are kept away like untrusted foreigners. I trust you will keep us safe, Ser. Allow as many through as you are willing to accept,” Nymeria dictated, winning a defeated acceptance from the knight.

“Do not worry, Olyvar. We have White Fang and Hura to protect us,” Aegon said as the two white direwolves came trotting from the rear of their train to stand beside them. Autumn and Arghurys were already with Senya and Eddard, walking toward the great statues that stood taller than the rest at the center of the plaza.

Aegon escorted her across the empty plaza to stand with their brother and sister before the statues carved in their father and mothers’ likenesses. Nymeria still looked at the statues with wonder and awe. She always heard statues never much looked like the real person, but Nymeria thought the sculptor accurately captured her parents.

Her father stood in the middle, with Blackfyre sheathed on his hip and her mother to his left. Queen Daenerys was on his right and Queen Visenya next to Queen Rhaenys with Dark Sister on her hip. Nymeria saw it fitting her parents’ statues adorned winter cloaks. What did not fit were the crowns on their heads. Nymeria’s parents only wore their crowns in the Throne Room, but she reasoned every monarch’s statue included a crown.

“I feared Father was going to take Davos’ head when he saw this,” Nymeria admitted as she read their parents titles and names etched in the marble plinth below. Underneath the titles, Davos Seaworth commissioned a few words so people would remember her parents saved the Realm from a winter without end.

“I had never seen him so cross with someone,” Senya said, looking up at the familiar faces carved in stone above. Nymeria prayed the fine marble would stand forever, unbroken, unlike the Titan of Braavos.

“Do you think he meant it, when he swore to take it down?” Aegon asked. Nymeria recalled the threat after their entire family attended the completion of the Hall of Heroes, a name she was sure would not last.

“Father always means what he says…but Mother swore her wrath would be immeasurable if he did,” Nymeria said, happy her mother wanted Davos’ gift to stand. _If Davos did not have it built, Arya or Rhaegar would have._

“It will stay,” Senya agreed with Nymeria, knowing their mothers held a certain amount of power over their father.

After leaving the plaza behind to enter the Dragonhall, Nymeria and her siblings were greeted with open doors as tall as twenty feet. Inside, she saw the statues of Aemon the Dragonknight to her right and Daeron I to her left. Both were heroes of her brothers and she was sure they were heroes to her father.

“I wonder, is that how the Dragonknight truly looked?” Nymeria said for only Aegon to hear. She questioned if any of the statues truly looked like those who were dead long before the marble was cut.

“I like to think so. They used the paintings in the Red Keep,” Aegon hoped.

“I do not think some of our Dornish lords will look kindly on the Young Dragon being the first to greet them,” Nymeria said after Aegon pulled her away from Daeron I’s statue.

“Grandmother is a Martell. Mother has Dornish blood. We have the blood of the Rhoynar. If that isn’t enough, then fuck the Dornish lords,” Aegon said, making her laugh. Nymeria made sure no one was around to listen after remembering they were no longer in the relative safety of Maegor’s Holdfast.

“You shouldn’t say such things. When the last stone is laid and I am your wife and you my lord husband, Fyrestone will be our home. A home for our children. They will be surrounded by Dornish lords,” Nymeria cautioned her brother.

“Aye, you are right,” Aegon mumbled as they approached the rotunda beneath the great dome that marked the center of the Dragonhall. Bathed in sunlight, Aegon the Conqueror and his sisterwives stood proudly at the center of the hall. _What would they think? Would they be proud of our House and what it has accomplished? Or did they expect more? Did they want a new Valyria rebuilt?_

“I think this is where we go our separate ways. I have yet to see King Jaehaerys and Queen Alysanne,” Senya announced, pulling Eddard away with their direwolves trotting behind them down the hall to their right.

“Should we stay here?” Aegon asked.

“No, I want to see grandfather’s statue,” Nymeria answered. She tried to remember all the great kings, princes, knights, and queens who filled the hall, but her grandfather was the only one she could think of.

Without saying a word, her brother whisked her away from the Conqueror’s plinth and led her down the hall at the other side of the rotunda. The path they took brought them past familiar names, names she grew up hearing in the stories told by her parents. There was Lord Eddard Stark, Ser Edwell Celtigar, and Prince Lewyn Martell. Each of them were heroes who lost their lives defending the Iron Throne and House Targaryen. They were also heroes of Balon Greyjoy’s rebellion and the mess that was the rebellion against the Mad King.

Near the end of the hall, a statue of their grandmother, Queen Rhaella stood opposite Prince Aegon Targaryen, their uncle. They were the last statues before King Rhaegar and his Queens. _He looks quiet and sad, like Father._

Nymeria never knew her grandfather, but that did not stop the hurt she felt. She wished she could have known him. She wished her grandmothers still had him. They never let their grief show, but Nymeria could always hear it in their voices when they spoke of her grandfather. _They loved him and he loved them._

“Gods, here they come,” Aegon complained when they heard the sound of voices filling the halls behind them. “Hura! White Fang! Go, do not let anyone through.”

“Do not bite anyone!” Nymeria begged their direwolves as they padded across the marble floor to the edge of the rotunda. Neither Hura or her brother’s direwolf gave any signal that they heard her. “You shouldn’t have done that.”

“I shouldn’t be doing this either,” Aegon said with a grin, making her afraid of what her brother would do next. Before she could protest, her feet were off the ground and Aegon’s lips were crashing into hers. It was ill-advised, but Nymeria forgot their guards and her duty.

Aegon carried her behind the nearest statue, hidden away in the shadows against the wall. Nymeria prayed the line of columns and statues masked their passion. _We shouldn’t. We shouldn’t. This isn’t…_

His hands ended whatever protest Nymeria tried to conjure in her mind. Her breath hitched and her back arched when his thumb found its way under her dress, teasing her nipple. When his lips abandoned her, Nymeria feared her soft moans would echo through the Dragonhall as Aegon’s kisses trailed down her neck. Making matters worse, his other hand ghosted her back to find its way under her Essosi dress to pleasantly knead her ass.

“Nymeria…,” Aegon whispered her name before he freed her breast from the dress. She should have cursed him and slapped him for his carelessness, but she loved him. Instead of pushing him away, she fisted his silver hair and pulled him to her breast.

“Oh, Egg…don’t stop brother, don’t stop,” Nymeria ordered in High Valyrian, ready to punish him if he took his lips off her breast. He seemed to like her words. He growled and grazed his teeth against her nipple. All Nymeria could do was gasp for air and bask in her ecstasy.

As Aegon continued to plunder her breast and squeeze her cheeks, Nymeria dared to think about what else they could do. _He could finger me right here, couldn’t he? We could be quick. He could even give me the lord’s…oh Aegon._

“Stop. Aegon, stop,” Nymeria commanded. She pushed him away and hurried to adjust her dress so her breast was no longer exposed for some common person or household guard to see. Aegon tempted her with a finger tracing over her rosebud before finding her wet cunt. But it wasn’t to be. The voices in the distance grew louder and Nymeria was not willing to risk any more.

Slipping between the plinth to her right and the red marble column to her left, Nymeria saw her direwolves warning any smallfolk from wandering down the hall. Unfortunately, Hura did not stop the smallfolk from looking and pointing. She prayed her hair wasn’t a mess and hoped her dress did not look ruffled from Aegon’s eager hands.

“Trust me, no one will suspect a thing. No one saw us,” Aegon cautioned, emerging from their newfound hideaway. _No, they have only seen me emerge from the shadows and you after me._

“Seven hells,” Nymeria cursed when she turned around to look at her brother. She did not care to look at the statue her brother chose to hide their passions.

“What? What is it?” Aegon asked with a concerned look about his face. He followed her eyes, seeing what she saw. “Shit.”

“The smallfolk love their tales and gossip. We will never hear the end of this,” Nymeria said, forcing herself to look away from her uncle’s statue. _The Bastard Prince and the Bastard Princess, kissing behind their true father’s statue._ Nymeria could hear the whispers and stories as she walked away. She was sure the more imaginative would tell a far more scandalous tale.

“We could order the guards to cut out their tongues or White Fang could rip out their throats,” Aegon suggested in a hushed, unserious tone.

“If only we were Maegor the Cruel,” Nymeria laughed. It was all she could do. She would laugh and pray for the silence of the onlooking smallfolk ahead. “No, we will treat them with kindness and talk to them as lords and ladies. Listen to their troubles and let them know we care.”

Upon her return to the Red Keep, Nymeria was greeted with empty courtyards, a silent Throne Room, and no sign of her family. Evenfall was still far off and there were no signs of an impending storm rolling through the city. Presuming her family was not holed up inside Maegor’s Holdfast, she went in search of her family in the royal gardens.

Before she could reach her mothers’ preferred pavilion at the north end of the gardens, the familiar sound of steel clattering with steel caught her ear. Following the sounds of two fighters sparring and the occasional cheer, Nymeria walked down the path that led to the small arena along the shore of Blackwater Bay. The four direwolves who accompanied them ran ahead, under the shade of ash, peach, cherry, lemon, and chestnut trees.

Protecting the perimeter of the makeshift fighting pit stood Ser Simon Sunglass, a dozen household guard, and another two dozen Unsullied. With a courteous bow typical of a knight of the Kingsguard, Ser Simon let them pass. When she came to stand beside Hura, Nymeria could see her older sister with a practice sword in hand, ready to parry a blow from Queen Visenya.

At the other end of the fighting pit, Dany was instructing Lyarra with Jon and Rhaegar’s assistance. The lower rows of seating were filled by most of her brothers and sisters. The seats closest to Lyarra and Dany’s spar were filled by her aunt, Lady Arya Baratheon, and her little cousins.

“Shouldn’t everyone still be in the Throne Room?” Nymeria asked her youngest sister, Allyria, as she occupied the empty seat beside her.

“Father wanted to meet with the Lyseni. They said something about longships on the Summer Sea,” Allyria answered with her eyes never leaving Arya’s feints and strikes. Nymeria knew her sister wanted to be like Arya and Dany, a warrior.

“And shouldn’t you be studying with the maesters?” Nymeria thought aloud.

“Mother wanted us in the Throne Room,” Allyria replied, leaning forward to study the spar. Nymeria saw Arya’s strikes had improved, but she was still no match for their mother, Queen Visenya. Knowing her sister’s fate was sealed, Nymeria turned her gaze to her brothers. Aegon and Eddard joined Rhaegar and Jon, encouraging Lyarra’s attempts to defeat Dany.

“Were there many lords and knights? Or were the petitioners mostly smallfolk?” Nymeria asked.

“There were a few knights from Dorne and the Riverlands. The lord with the black toad as his sigil wanted to speak with Father about thieves and bandits,” Allyria said as Torrhen came hurrying over to sit beside his twin sister.

“Lord Lucias Vypren,” Nymeria remembered the lord’s name and sigil.

“Dany says they are all liars,” Torrhen added.

“She is probably right,” Nymeria agreed, knowing every lord or lady came before the Iron Throne wanting to something. There were some she trusted, most of them tied to House Targaryen by blood or marriage.

“But he fought for Father in the War of the Four Kings. The Vyprens fought the White Walkers at Winterfell. They are sworn to our House. The other knights as well,” Torrhen said, confused why she would be suspicious of men sworn to House Targaryen.

“He did. Many lords and knights and smallfolk fought for us. It does not mean they are all honest. It does not mean they are all good. There is good and evil on every side of a war, Torrhen,” Nymeria said before realizing her brother was still too young to understand the intricacies of the politics of the Seven Kingdoms.

“Evil men wouldn’t fight for Father. He wouldn’t allow it,” Torrhen argued with the belief and purity of a nine-year-old prince. Nymeria held her tongue, believing this was a matter best discussed with their father or one of their mothers. It wasn’t her place to teach Torrhen about traitorous lords or even good lords who told small lies to do what was best for their House.

“Torrhen! Allyria!” Queen Visenya called out, no longer wielding a blunted steel sword in her hand, but a wooden practice sword meant for the youngest of Nymeria’s siblings.

“Go on,” Nymeria encouraged her brother and sister who were beaming at the chance to learn from their mother.

Nymeria wanted to watch her siblings spar with their practice swords, but as soon as Allyria abandoned the seat beside her, Sansa took her place. With Sansa came Daenys and Naerys, each in there finely woven dresses fashioned in the style of the Crownlands. Before she could greet her sisters, Sansa blurted out, “Daenys means to ride with the hunting party into the Kingswood.”

“I know. Everyone will be there,” Nymeria said, looking over her sister’s shoulder to see Aemon happier than she had ever seen him. She was glad for him and Naerys. Even on the best of days, with a warm sun and a cool breeze sweeping ashore, Aemon could always be found inside the library or his chambers. Since he walked into the Great Hall of Dragonstone with Naerys on his arm, all of that changed.

“No, she means to ride out with our brothers. She has plans for Valarr,” Sansa said all too excitedly, as if she were the one planning to win Valarr’s heart. Sansa had always known she would wed her brother, Brandon. Nymeria guessed her sister found joy in their sisters finding matches of their own.

“Plans?” Nymeria turned around to look up at Daenys and Naerys sitting behind her. She gave both a knowing look, waiting for an answer.

“It is Senya’s idea. She said…,” Naerys tried to explain before Daenys nudged her side with an elbow.

“Naerys…,” Daenys warned their sister, sounding desperate for them to end the conversation. Nymeria looked to Senya, but her sister did not spill the details of Daenys’ plan.

“Well, I wish you good fortune, sister,” Nymeria said, thinking Valarr a blind fool. Sansa, Daenys, and Naerys were Valyrian beauties with flowing silver hair and amethyst eyes as rich as Nymeria’s dress.

Nymeria wondered how Valarr had yet to take notice of Daenys’ ethereal beauty. Her sister even had a woman’s body now, something Aemon and Brandon did not miss with Naerys and Sansa. _Mayhaps I should tell Egg to hit him in the head a few times. Then he may take his eyes off swords and shields for a moment and see what matters._

“Wait, why did you not come to me? I could have helped you with Valarr,” Nymeria asked when it finally hit her Daenys went to Senya for advice. She thought it strange and suspicious, considering Senya was very private about her affections for Eddard.

“Daenys came to me, looking for advice. It just…happened,” Senya explained without any details.

“Whatever you have planned, be brave and do not take no for an answer,” Nymeria advised with the hope Daenys was truly listening. She knew her sister was timid and worried the possibility Daenys would abandon her efforts at the last moment for fear of rejection.

“I know what you did,” Nymeria heard Arya’s voice from behind. Arya and Dany were leaning against the four-foot high stone wall that separated spectators from the fighters in the pit. Both of her sisters were tired, wiping the sweat from their brows while drinking from their waterskins.

“And what is it that you think I did?” Nymeria asked, puzzled by her sister’s declaration. A raised brow from Arya and a soft chuckle from Dany told her it was nothing good. _I do not like where this is going._

“Aegon has that same satisfied and lustful look on his face,” Arya said, leaning closer so their mother and younger siblings would not hear. Nymeria could feel herself blushing as Arya continued, “In the Dragonhall? Pray you were not seen.”

“What did you do in the Dragonhall?” Sansa asked louder than Nymeria would have preferred and to Arya’s evil delight.

“We only kissed, Arya,” Nymeria lied, hoping her sister would stop this cruel jest. _Did Aegon open his big mouth? How does she know? She isn’t that good at reading people, I think._

“So you say,” Arya said with a raised eyebrow, telling Nymeria she was not sold on the lie.

“Nymeria is telling the truth. I was there,” Senya lied for her. Nymeria gave her an appreciative and thankful smile while Arya was occupied, staring at Rhaegar.

“I presume you will be part of the hunting party,” Nymeria shifted the subject while she could.

“Of course we are,” Dany answered for them both.

“Who else?” Senya asked as they all turned their eyes to Torrhen and Allyria doing their best to mimic the knights in stories they grew up on.

“Mother,” Dany nodded her head to Queen Visenya, who was cheering on Allyria and Torrhen. “All our brothers, except Aemon, I think. Lyarra, Allyria, and Elia said she would go if Maelor decides he wants to.”

“I am going,” Daenys announced, but judging by her sisters’ lack of surprise, Nymeria understood Arya and Dany already knew.

“You will have to wear boots and riding breaches, sister,” Arya responded in a jestful tone. “You will get dirty in the Kingswood. There are no warm bathes or handmaidens to help you dress in one of your silk dresses.”

“I know,” Daenys said with a subtle grin on her lips. Nymeria thought her little sister wished to say more, but Daenys held her tongue. _Curious._

“Oh, I found the Lysene wine we were looking for,” Arya announced to Nymeria’s delight. “I think the servants tried to hide it. It was difficult to find behind the Tyroshi pear brandy, but I found it.”

“Your solar, tonight?” Nymeria asked and Arya smiled, telling her yes. Nymeria always felt joyous when she or one of her sisters stole the best wines in the cellars saved for her parents. They were never under threat of any real punishment, but she and her sisters reveled in the mischief nevertheless.

“Can we join?” Sansa sounded desperate to join them. Daenys and Naerys looked just as eager to partake. Her plea made Nymeria feel guilty, considering they never thought to invite them. It was always her eldest sisters and Sarra who ended their nights on stolen wine.

“If you bring your own. I did not steal enough for the three of you,” Arya warned Sansa after gaining silent agreements from Nymeria, Dany, and Senya that their little sisters could join them. “Go to the wine cellars when the servants are carrying the first course from the kitchens. If you look out for one another, you should not be caught. And remember, have one of our direwolves smell it just to be sure. They should be safe, but you should still take precautions.”

“Do not come back with a Dornish red or Arbor gold. We have tasted them all. There is no fun in stealing a wine from the Seven Kingdoms,” Nymeria told her sisters.

“What would you choose?” Naerys asked.

“Avoid the wines from Andalos, they are too sour for my liking. I think you will like one of the pale ambers from Pentos…the ones with the square towers and grapes falling from the sky like raindrops,” Nymeria told her sister after going through the countless wines she had tasted in her mind.

“Remember, there will be eight of us. One bottle will not do,” Dany said with a mischievous smile on her lips.

**Prince Jon Targaryen**

“Come on, Suvion, leave him be,” Jon called for his direwolf to return to his side. Suvion hurried along as he always did, leaving a nervous knight in Ser Monford’s service to go about his business. Jon still found it hard to believe his direwolf was two years old and almost fully grown, scaring away horses and kitchen servants alike.

With Suvion padding across the outer bailey at his side, Jon observed an empty yard under the night sky. There were no stableboys readying palfreys and destriers or household guard preparing to open the gates. Five guards, clad in the colors of House Targaryen stood at the corner of the main gatehouse with another five standing on the ramparts above. Their conversation was masked by the sounds of a restless King’s Landing outside the castle walls and the laughter of his brothers a dozen yards down the ramparts.

When Jon reached the final step to the ramparts, he found himself surprised by two Unsullied with their spears and shields. Both soldiers acknowledged his name and title, bowing their heads before letting him pass to join his brothers. Further along the wall, he could see more Unsullied looking at the streets below and the houses standing across the street that surrounded the Red Keep.

“Jon! You’re late! Come! Come! Have this blackberry wine,” Aegon called for him, alerted to his presence by the Unsullied on watch. Before Jon could respond, a wineskin was thrust into his hands by Aegon. “From Lord Tytos. Trust me brother, it is quite good for a wine from the Riverlands.”

“Aye,” Jon confirmed after a quick swig. It was strong, but rich with flavor. As he pulled the wineskin from his lips, he noticed an entire cask sitting along the battlements with black ravens and blackberries painted on the dark wood. “I assume this wine was intended as gift to our parents.”

“There was more than one. I could not let it go to waste. It was either us or our sisters,” Aegon said, throwing an arm around his shoulder as they walked to join their brothers huddled around the cask, sipping from wineskins of their own.

“Jon,” Brandon and Valarr greeted him before he sat with his back to the battlements beside Aemon. Suvion scurried off another dozen paces to join the other direwolves. _Where is Rhaegar?_

“I still say you should have taken one of the Lysene,” Corlys Velaryon said, sitting between Brandon and Eddard around the cask. Jon was glad to see their distant cousin back in King’s Landing. Corlys was older than all of them, but he fit in well at only sixteen years of age. He even resembled a Targaryen to most with his near-silver blonde hair and blue eyes.

“Lysene wine? For my sisters, perhaps. They are the ones wearing skirts,” Aegon replied drunkenly, chuckling to himself. Jon said nothing, but he rather agreed with his brother. Lysene wines were sweet and preferred by the ladies at court.

“That is because you haven’t had all the wines from Lys,” Corlys replied, shaking his head with a smirk on his lips. Jon did not know their Velaryon kin to be liars. _Mayhaps he is right. He has been to Lys two times in the last three years._

“The girls in Lys, are they truly as beautiful as they say?” Brandon asked.

“Better,” was all Corlys said before taking a swig from his wineskin.

“Did you visit the pillowhouses?” Brandon asked, making Jon curious as to why his brother wanted to know such things.

“No, I was with my father the entire time. He does not approve of whores. If I were caught with one, I would still be swimming from Lys to Driftmark,” Corlys said in a tone that told Jon there was truth in his words.

“Did you want to?” Brandon replied.

“Do you want to betray our sister?” Eddard spoke up, sounding like he had not tasted a drop of the strong blackberry wine.

“Eddard, he didn’t…,” Aegon started to defend their brother.

“I would never betray Sansa. Even if I wanted to, Lys is over a thousand miles away. How am I supposed to visit a Lysene pillowhouse?” Brandon vehemently insisted. “I was just curious. Every time I hear a sailor or soldier speak of Lys, they always talk of the Lysene whores.”

“Sorry, I did not mean to accuse you. I am just looking out for our sister,” Eddard apologized, patting Brandon on the shoulder before walking past them all toward the direwolves.

“You Targaryens are lucky. Your sisters are the most beautiful women in the world and you will wed them. Trust me, I do not think the Lyseni would impress you as they do others,” Corlys mused as he filled his empty wineskin from the cask.

“Laena is beautiful,” Brandon said of Corlys’ sister. Jon fought to hold back his laughter, knowing how Corlys would respond. Laena was fourteen years of age and a beautiful girl, but the Velaryons were not Targaryens.

“What? No,” Corlys nearly spit out his wine, even making Aemon laugh. “Forgive me cousins, but no. I can’t look at her that way.”

“Has your father betrothed you to another?” Aegon asked.

Corlys remained silent, staring at his feet while he stole another swig from his wineskin. Jon thought to shift the subject, sensing something wrong, but Corlys answered, “Not yet.”

“Is there a lady you wish to marry?” Jon asked, wondering if there was a lady in the Crownlands or even a lowborn girl who caught the heir to House Velaryon’s eye.

“Melyssa Rykker,” Corlys said. Jon did not need to hear anymore. Everything he needed to know could be heard in his cousin’s voice. He did not see Melyssa as some conquest or mistress. _He would wed her now if he could._

“A fine lady,” Jon complimented Corlys’ preferred lady.

“Do not lose heart, cousin. There are many beauties in the Crownlands with fathers who dream of their daughters becoming the Lady of Driftmark,” Aegon declared. Jon noted the disagreement in Corlys’ eyes.

Soon enough, Brandon, Aegon, and Corlys were debating the greatest beauties across the Crownlands and eventually the Seven Kingdoms. Valarr only sat and listened, likely dreaming of his next spar as he silently went about drinking his wine. Jon said nothing, having little interest in ladies not named Dany.

“You miss her already,” Jon said quietly to Aemon, who sat perched against the battlements next to him. He could see it in his brother’s unflinching eyes that remained focused on the stairs leading to Maegor’s Holdfast across the bailey.

“Is it that obvious?” Aemon answered, confirming Jon’s suspicions.

“Do not worry, brother. I remember the feeling. When Dany and I first…she was all I could think about,” Jon said, reminiscing his first kiss with Dany in the Red Keep’s godswood. He could still see her unbraided silver hair and her stained, red training blouse and black breeches that complimented her ass. Jon could still taste her soft lips and brush his fingers through her smooth hair on that summer night.

“I am not,” Aemon paused, taking a sip from his wineskin. _No, you are not._ He continued, “…worried, that is. I wish I could be with Naerys right now.”

“Then why aren’t you with her?” Jon asked.

“She is with our sisters. She offered to join me in the library or a meeting in the godswood, but I told her she should go. I could tell she wanted to be with our sisters. I think she has missed them, since we have…since we have been together,” Aemon replied.

“Do not let her go, brother. Naerys is good and pure of heart. She makes you happy, we can all see it. You barely smiled before and now, every time I cross paths with you, you are grinning like a lovesick fool,” Jon advised his brother, patting him on the shoulder.

“She is all I ever wanted. Her laugh and her smile…those eyes and her soft lips. The way she dances and sings at feast. She is perfect. She even…I… Never mind,” Aemon mused with a slightly drunken slur in his words. Jon laughed, expecting Aemon to continue with his compliments until morning. Instead, Aemon held his tongue, realizing what he was rambling.

“I understand what you mean. You love her,” Jon said, returning to his own wineskin as several lords, ladies, knights, servants, and unknown guests walked about the grounds of the Red Keep. _The feast is finally at an end._

“Do you love Dany?” Aemon asked.

“Of course, I do. Why would you ask such a thing?” Jon replied, thinking his brother was either a fool or blind. _Perhaps he is a fool. He should have seen Naerys cared for him long ago._

“I don’t know. I always thought you did. I still do, it’s just, I think I have had too much of this wine,” Aemon decided, putting his wineskin aside. _Too much wine and you were never good at conversation, little brother._

“I am going to find Eddard. I will not let our brother drink alone,” Jon said as he found his feet and looked to his left where his brothers were arguing over the prettiest Dornish girls they had ever seen. “Aemon, if you wish to please Naerys and make our entire family laugh, help Valarr with his wine. Get him as drunk as possible and challenge him to a spar on the morrow.”

“He would still defeat me,” Aemon laughed at the idea without any hint of shame in his voice. Aemon was the least prideful of his brothers when it came to fighting skills. _Valarr is quite good. It would be close._

“I have faith in you, brother,” Jon decided to encourage Aemon, hoping to see the spar. _Before, we could have named it the Battle of the Kingsguard and the Maester._

Leaving Aemon behind, Jon turned to his right to walk along the empty battlements toward the pack of lounging direwolves. Suvion lifted his head, ready to follow him wherever he led. Jon waved his white-furred direwolf off, seeing Eddard was only another hundred paces down the wall standing next to Rhaegar.

“And now, our watch begins,” Rhaegar jested as Eddard stood beside his brothers, all three of them dressed in black as each of them preferred. One of them always felt compelled to say it when they occupied the castle walls at night, looking out onto the city around them.

Leaning against the crenel, Jon took in the view before him. He had a perfect view of the Hook and the three alehouses within sight before the street took its curve. There were no men to be seen entering the establishments, only patrons coming out to drink outside the crowded alehouses. It was a faint sound, but he could hear the cheers and song from the men filling their cups with ale and wine.

King’s Landing was built on uneven terrain with three great hills and the little section of wall Jon and his brothers occupied provided a view of more than just the Hook. Thousands of candles in the windows of people’s homes surrounded the Red Keep. Light emanated from the great and minor squares alike, only to pale in comparison to the lights surrounding the Dragonhall.

At night, braziers small and large, illuminated the red marbled walls of the Dragonhall. Jon could also see a dozen lights from the windows of the top floors of the hall. More candles shone from the twelve towers that climbed into the sky surrounding the structure meant to honor House Targaryen and the Realm’s greatest heroes.

“I could have done without tonight’s feast,” Eddard ended the long silence.

“We should have followed your lead,” Jon followed, looking to Rhaegar. He learned long ago his eldest brother always did his duty and endured feasts in the Great Hall when the occasion was of importance. But feasts of lesser significance that did not require a Crown Prince’s presence saw Rhaegar’s early absence.

“Aye,” Rhaegar replied with a small smirk playing on his lips. Jon thought to offer his brother some blackberry wine until he saw his brother holding a wineskin of his own. “It will only get worse. This damned tourney...there will be thirty nights of feasts I suspect.”

“We should take one of the tunnels and visit the alehouses between the King’s Square and Cobbler’s Square,” Jon suggested in jest, knowing they could not take such risks as princes of House Targaryen.

“Start a fight, steel some lads’ ladies, race down the Street of Sisters…,” Eddard laughed.

“Perhaps we should,” Rhaegar said with no hint of humor in his voice. _Is he serious?_ Rhaegar’s words surprised Jon. He wasn’t sure if it was the wine or his brother growing tired of the burdens carried by the Crown Prince and the Crown Prince alone.

“You are serious?” Eddard asked, giving Rhaegar the same curious look Jon was.

“If we are careful and smart, why not? We go armed and cloaked in our traveling clothes. We will have to leave Egg behind, I am afraid,” Rhaegar stated sadly, knowing just as well as Jon, Aegon could never keep his identity hidden. “No, that will not do. Forget I said it.”

“On the morrow, we should fly for Tumbleton,” Eddard suggested. They would not visit the town, but they would likely swim the Mander.

“Father expects us to spar with the Dornish on the morrow,” Rhaegar replied, shaking his head. Holding his arm up as Eddard began to protest, he continued, “I suspect one of them complained to their father.”

“They are no real competition,” Eddard said with clear disappointment. Jon knew the Dornish lordlings would be easy foes to defeat in the training yard. He found joy in training his little brothers, not sparring lesser opponents who eyed his sisters like they were maids to be claimed.

“Aegon will leave Damon Yronwood with a bloody nose,” Jon predicted with some satisfaction. _I do not like the way he looks at Nymeria._

“That is why I will be paired with Damon. Let’s beat them and bruise them enough, they will not call for another spar,” Rhaegar advised.

Jon went on to discuss with his brothers the tactics they would implement against their Dornish opponents on the morrow. Rhaegar pointed out the strengths and weaknesses of each fighter while Jon and Eddard sipped on their blackberry wine. They were getting drunk, but not enough to forget their plans.

After their assured victories were plotted, Jon spent another hour with his brothers on the battlements. They remembered fond times on royal progresses, laughed over jests not appropriate for court, and argued over which famous knight could defeat another. Their conversation also turned to the usual gossip of King’s Landing and the Crownlands. Corlys Velaryon provided them with the more spectacular rumors that spread from port to port, but did not reach the Small Council because of their improbability.

When the night grew late and Aegon demanded they finish the cask of wine from Raventree Hall, Jon took his leave. He did not wish to stay in his bed until midday, recovering from a long night of drinking with his brothers. Suvion went with him, descending the stairs and crossing the bailey at his side in search of his chambers inside Maegor’s Holdfast.

The journey from the main gate to the entrance hall of Maegor’s Holdfast seemed shorter than it should. Jon thought himself lucky not to cross paths with a lordling trying to befriend him or a scheming lady trying to enchant him before reaching the stairs that led to the royal chambers. The corridors were quiet, guarded by Unsullied and household guard that either bowed their heads or remained still as statues when he passed.

Ser Oswell Whent and Ser Jonothor Darry were the Kingsguard waiting at the top of the stairs with six household guard at their command. The knights greeted him and let him through to an empty hallway, brightly lit by braziers and torches hanging from the walls. Ghost and Snow were perched outside his parents’ chambers, telling him they had already retired for the knight.

Jon thought to search out Dany, but decided to leave her alone upon hearing the laughter emanating from Arya’s chambers. He wanted to see her before finding his sleep, but he did not want to impose. _I will wake her before sunrise. We can train before the castle wakes._

Before Jon could reach out for the door to his room, he nearly tumbled over as someone came crashing into his side. The feeling of her hands righting his body so he could face her told him it was Dany. As soon as he laid eyes on her, their lips were crashing and she was pushing him into his room. The back of his head hit the wooden door and they were loud about it, but he did not care.

“You are drunk,” Jon laughed after finally catching his breath in the middle of his solar, staring down into his sister’s violet eyes. _Seven hells, she is so beautiful. My Dany._

“Aye,” she replied, looking him and up down. Jon wanted to curse, catching himself off balance in a near stumble. “As are you,” she rightly accused him.

“Tytos Blackwood’s blackberry wine is stronger than I expected,” Jon stated, knowing he would have filled his wineskin just the once had he known.

“I thought I tasted blackberry on your lips,” Dany said, giggling to herself. Jon wanted to kiss her again, to remind himself of the sweet taste of Pentoshi grapes on her full lips. When he leaned in to kiss her, she turned on her heels, leaving him to lust after her.

Jon did not need to chase after her, for Dany clasped her hand with one of his own and pulled him along. Through his solar, his eyes remained fixed on her swaying hips. He thought the green Essosi silk dress complimented her curves. The longer he stared, the more he believed it was her intention to drive him mad and rip her clothes off before reaching his bed.

“Wait,” Jon stopped himself as he began to unbuckle his belt. His gambeson and tunic were already on the floor. Dany slid her dress off as soon as he opened his mouth, letting the silks pool at her feet. She was as naked as her first nameday, tempting him to admire her beautiful cunt before continuing. “We shouldn’t. Someone will say something. We have tempted fate too many times.”

“Jon, do you think they do not already know? Our parents know everything that happens in this castle. Do you think they have not noticed either of us sneaking from the other’s room at sunrise? And if they haven’t, I am sure a spider on the wall or a mouse creeping along the floor has told Varys and he has told Father,” Dany argued, telling him things he did not wish to hear or believe.

“They do not know about Rhaegar and Arya,” Jon found his voice, delving deep to come up with an argument his sister could not refute.

“You think they do not know?” Dany laughed, looking at him like he was the most naïve person in the world. He could see it in her eyes.

“But…They haven’t said anything. You have not said anything, not to me and not to Rhaegar and Arya,” Jon said, wondering why she had kept this suspicion to herself.

“Because I thought you knew. And I have not told them because Father and Mothers have said nothing. Let Rhaegar and Arya continue their mummer’s farce. I think they secretly like the sneaking around,” Dany mused, shaking her head.

“Why have they not stopped us, if they know?” Jon asked, concerned about some future punishment from his father. Since their return from Dragonstone, not a night passed without Jon sleeping in Dany’s bed or she in his.

“Well, I pray they do not know exactly what we are doing,” Dany replied, biting her lip as her eyes fell to his hard cock. “And can they really say anything? Father and Mother Danaerys were not that much older than us when she became pregnant with Rhaegar and Arya. Mother was, what? Fifteen? Sixteen, when she became pregnant with us? We haven’t even done that yet?”

“Can we stop talking about our parents?” Jon asked. _I wish I had remained silent. Perhaps I am a fool._

“Do you still…,” Dany paused, taking his cock in hand. A shudder ran through his bones as his sister slowly stroked his member, coaxing him into submission. “…want me gone?”

“No,” he barely let the word escape his mouth.

“Good, because I like your bed. If one of us were to leave, it would have to be you. And to think,” Dany held her tongue again, releasing her grip from his throbbing cock. Jon wanted to beg for her to return to her strokes. Instead, she fell back onto his bed, spreading her legs. A fleeting moment passed before her fingers began teasing her wet folds and strumming her clit.

“And to think?” Jon asked Dany, never taking his eyes off her fingers as they plunged into her entrance.

“If you were to leave, you would be sleeping alone, thinking of what all I was doing in your bed,” Dany answered with a soft whimper that cut through his self-control. Jon could not stand there, watching any longer. _Damn the consequences if there are any. She can stay in these bedchambers until we are torn apart if she wishes._

Kneeling at the edge of his bed, Jon carefully ghosted his hands over the soft skin of Dany’s thighs, admiring every inch of her. When his hands came to her folds, he took hold of her wrist and forced her fingers to abandon her cunt. Jon’s thirst for wine was quenched, but he still thirsted for Dany. One by one, he placed each of her fingers into his mouth, making sure none of her juices were left on her fingers after he was finished.

“Not my bed. Our bed,” Jon corrected his sister as he took in all her ethereal features. Her silver hair and pale skin glowed in the candlelight. She looked like a Valyrian goddess men would dream of.

“Mmm, Jon, my Jon,” Dany moaned as he abandoned her fingers and tasted her wet folds, anticipating a night with little sleep.

**Lady Sansa Arryn**

The Eyrie did not feel like home when her lord husband, then only a knight of House Arryn and cousin to Robin Arryn, saved her from Petyr Baelish and his plot to rule the Vale. Sansa even questioned her decision to wed Harrold on the day of their wedding. She tried her most to tell herself it was love. It wasn’t. She wed Lord Harrold Arryn for House Stark and the wars to come.

It was only after they were wed that Sansa found Lord Harrold to be more than a comely face with the right family name. He was kind, gentle, honorable, and brave. Before Joffrey and his torments, it was all she sought in a husband. Such silly notions of gallant knights were lost to her until she had found her honorable knight, Lord Harrold Arryn.

After twelve happy years of marriage and three children, Winterfell no longer felt like home. Home was the Eyrie. Home was Harrold and Amanda and Roland and Jeyne. If she was honest with herself, Winterfell did not quite feel like home when the war with the White Walkers was fought. By then, she had fallen in love with her husband and carried their first child. It was in winter, in the Great Keep of Winterfell, that Sansa accepted her future as the Lady of the Eyrie.

She was still a Stark, but it sounded odd whenever someone called her by her old name. Only old friends and people who knew her as a child still called her Sansa Stark. The lords and ladies of the Vale called her Lady Sansa Arryn.

“It looks lovely, girls,” Mya Redfort complimented their daughters from across the table. Sansa smiled with her best friend and trusted confidant as their eldest daughters unfurled the blankets they had sewn with their respective House sigils.

With every passing day, it felt like Sansa was staring into a looking glass when she laid eyes on her daughter of near ten years. Amanda was a sweet girl, who loved sewing, singing, and all the accuately ladylike activities Sansa had loved as a nine-year-old girl in Winterfell. _I pray she is not as naïve and dim as I once was. We will have to teach her the truth of this world. One day…_

“Septa Lonella says the next one can have a direwolf and a falcon! Wouldn’t that look lovely, Mother?” Amanda asked, still holding her white blanket with a blue falcon for her to see.

“Yes, yes it would,” Sansa agreed, quickly stealing a glance at the gardens beneath her balcony. From her seat at the table, she was able to peer through the balustrades and catch her son, Roland. He was only eight and knew little of sparring, but pride swelled inside her as he bravely charged two boys with his wooden sword. His best friend, Hugh Redfort, Mya’s son of the same age, was charging right beside him.

“Mother, what was your sigil? Amanda has a direwolf and a falcon. I need something to go with the red castle,” Ellyn asked, never knowing her mother was a Stone, nor a bastard of Robert Baratheon.

Sansa had not thought of Mya’s birth for many years. It was almost forgotten to her. Ellyn’s question reminded Sansa of one of her first acts as Lady of the Eyrie. Ser Mychel Redfort was meant to wed Ysilla Royce, but Sansa intervened, to give her friend the marriage she always wanted and to test her own husband’s willingness to grant her wishes. Lady Ysilla was wed to a Grafton and Ser Mychel stayed at the Eyrie, serving House Arryn.

“Ellyn, I did not have a sigil,” Mya answered with some hesitance. _Does she mean to tell her the truth?_

“Everyone has a sigil,” Ellyn protested with a furrowed brow, looking like a young and frustrated Mya, with her black hair and blue eyes.

“Well…Amanda’s cousins are stags. Take the stag as your second sigil, if you like. Or make a sigil of your own,” Mya suggested, revealing a hidden truth to her daughter.

“You could sew a unicorn!” Amanda proclaimed giddily, pulling Ellyn with her into the solar. “House Brax has a purple unicorn for their sigil. My mother always said…”

“Will you tell her the truth, when we reach King’s Landing?” Sansa dared to ask Mya, knowing Ellyn and Hugh were sure to cross paths with Arya’s children.

“I haven’t decided. They know what it means to be a bastard, but do they truly know? Will they understand? I do not know. I do not know what I should do. Mayhaps it’s best they remain ignorant until they are of age. What can I tell them? My father was Robert Baratheon and my mother a commoner he wanted nothing to do with?” Mya spoke some life into her fears and misgivings.

“It isn’t my place, but I will tell you, I am grateful for my father telling me the truth. Allyria wasn’t trueborn, but she was my sister, my blood,” Sansa said, placing a gentle hand over Mya’s. “It pains me to admit it, but my mother did not care for bastards. She did not trust them and never spoke a kind word of them. And because she looked down upon them, so did I, until I learned Allyria was my sister. Ellyn and Hugh were raised without those feelings. I think they would like to know they have more family out there.”

“Do they know who I am? Do they know Robert was my father?” Mya asked, rising from her seat to stand along the balcony’s balustrades to watch their sons fight in the garden below.

“I do not know. I never thought to ask,” Sansa confessed, joining her friend to observe the small battle weaving through the statues and bushes. _Why did I never ask? How many ravens have I sent to Storm’s End and King’s Landing? A hundred? A thousand?_ “I can write to my sister now. I can…”

“No, let me tell them, if I may,” Mya replied before remembering Sansa was the Lady of the Eyrie and she, just the wife of a knight in the service of the Warden of the East.

“Of course, you are my dearest friend,” Sansa promised Mya, praying her friend would continue to speak freely in her presence. None of the other ladies in her court did so. They all feared her, except for Mya. Mya was a brave girl who could climb the mountain paths of the Vale in the black of night and never had the inclination to lie like all the other ladies. She reminded Sansa of Arya and Allyria. Sansa was sure that is why they became quick friends and allies in her early years in the Eyrie.

“King’s Landing…You know, I have never set foot outside the Vale?” Mya said as Hugh helped Roland off the ground. Sansa had grimaced when her son lost his footing, but he avoided a blow from the steward’s boy.

“I did not,” Sansa replied. She wanted to cheer on her son as he pretended to be a knight fighting off the Burned Men and Stone Crows, but she kept her silence. _He does not like me cheering._

“What is it like? Mya inquired.

“The worst place in the world,” Sansa said with a laugh tinged with sadness and anger. “No, I am sure it is a better place than when I left it. There are buildings as far as the eye can see. Have you been to Gulltown? King’s Landing has ten times its people, at least. It is a far safer place with House Targaryen sitting the Iron Throne, but I still would not walk the streets without a guard, especially during the tourney. I am sure every thief and bandit across the Seven Kingdoms will descend upon the city.”

“I welcome a thief. We have to deal with Moon Brothers and Black Ears on the High Road,” Mya jested. Since their husbands had led an attack on the Burned Men and Stone Crows, the Moon Brothers and Black Ears were the only clans that still attacked travelers on the High Road. _If they attack us on the road, I will make sure Harry calls the banners._

“They fight well for their age,” Harrold announced his presence, bringing a smirk to Sansa’s lips as she turned to face her husband as he crossed the solar to their balcony. Her body still ached for him and it only grew stronger when his blue eyes took her in like she was a beauty he had never laid eyes on before.

“My Lord,” Mya bowed her head and bid Sansa farewell. She returned a smile and waited for her friend’s absence until turning to her husband. There were no servants or guards in their apartment. Seeing they were alone, Sansa pounced on her husband, kissing him with the same vigor and passion they had shared in their chambers hours before.

“What is it?” Sansa asked when she realized her lord husband did not share his usual enthusiasm.

“A raven, from Sisterton,” Harrold grumbled, grimacing over what she expected to be dark news. Lord Godric Borrell was becoming a troublesome bannerman with little regard for the laws of the Realm.

“He refuses?” Sansa said incredulously. _The fool. He thinks he can refuse his liege lord?_

“No, the opposite. The raven was from Terrance Lynderly,” Harrold sighed. Sansa tried to understand, but her husband remained silent. When he leaned over the balustrade to observe the children at play, he continued, “Godric Borrell has promised the Sisters will no longer provide safe harbor to pirates, smugglers, and the like. He even presented some of them in chains for Terrance and our men.”

_Lord Borrell did as you asked and more, without bloodshed. And you are still angry? That can mean only one thing. My cousins…_

“He received a raven from King’s Landing,” Sansa stated, trusting her political instincts.

“No, not exactly. Terrance said he was surprised by the hospitality they received. He thought it was all a mummer’s farce until Ser Rymond spoke with some of the smallfolk. A Myrish captain was overheard in one of the inns, speaking of a Targaryen fleet at Dragonstone preparing to sail north. Preparing for war,” Harrold told her with contempt for her kin’s meddling. She knew her husband was prideful and his reaction to the news was not surprising. “I do not like it. If I wanted their aid, I would have asked for it. This makes our House look weak.”

“I do not like it either, but our House is not weak. The lords of the Vale know this. The Royces fought by your side in the Bay of Dragons. The Waynwoods, Lynderlys, Graftons, and Redforts fought for us in the Battle of Blackwater Rush and the Battle of King’s Landing. The knights of the Vale rode north and fought for us against the Dead. They would not do so for a weak liege lord,” Sansa tried her best to make him see the truth. She understood his frustration and partially agreed with his sentiment, but she could see Harrold was more than frustrated. “How many times have the mountain clans come down from their caves and camps? Their attacks are fewer every year.”

“Slavers, Lannisters, White Walkers, wildlings…they are outsiders. It is different and you know it,” Harrold said. He was not wrong and she knew that.

Sansa did not want him to feel the burden of ruling was his alone. In a bid to warm his heart, she wrapped her arms around his middle and leaned her head against his shoulder. The longer they stayed like that, watching the children run from the garden, Sansa wondered if her gesture was more for herself or her husband.

“I have faith in you and I have faith in us. We secured the allegiance of every House in the Vale before, without any bloodshed. And that was during a time of war, with the Lannisters offering gold and more for our heads. I think we can handle the odd lord or lady who thinks they do not have to answer to the Eyrie,” Sansa declared, tracing her fingers over Harrold’s chest.

“You are right. You are always right,” Harrold replied with a kiss on her dark auburn hair. She was not the same girl she once was, but his kiss was a small, loving gesture that stilled stirred old feelings of the lovesick maid inside her.

“I did not think anything of it before, but there were troubles across the Narrow Sea. If I remember, the ravens from Gulltown said something of the ports in Tyrosh and Myr. I cannot be sure, but you know Jon. He would not involve House Targaryen in this conflict between Godric Borrell and Royce Coldwater without reason. My guess, this has to do with the politics of the Narrow Sea,” Sansa reasoned. She could not put the pieces together, but she was sure of her instincts. _Something is amiss. Either the Sisters are of strategic value in a coming conflict or my cousins think they can rid the world of pirates and smugglers or they need peace in the Vale. Or there is something else…_

“Possibly,” Harrold replied before she caught him grinning like a fool, laughing at his own unspoken jest. When he caught her staring, he continued, “I wish I could have been at the Small Council meeting where this was decided. I am sure Bronze Yohn prayed for Lord Godric to refuse our demands and invite a war.”

“I remember his contempt for Lord Godric,” Sansa said. _There aren’t many lords Yohn Royce does not hold in contempt._

“Have you seen Jeyne?” Sansa decided to ask, not having seen her daughter since they broke their fast in the Morning Hall.

“She is in the library with Maester Gelwyn. He is teaching her the histories of the Andal invasions. She seemed to care, but I know our daughter. She knew I was there watching,” Harrold said, laughing when he spoke of their youngest. Jeyne was a sweet girl, but knew how to test her patience. She was smarter than the children her age, but that only worsened the mischief she created.

“She reminds me of my sister,” Sansa admitted, wondering what her old friend, Jeyne Poole, would think of that. Sansa named her daughter after her childhood friend, who was now the future Lady of the Dreadfort, wed to Ethan Cassel. She had children of her own Sansa wished to see.

“She looks just like you. Both of them do,” Harrold added.

“And Roland looks just like you,” Sansa replied, seeing more than just the blue eyes and sandy hair. Her son had Harrold’s jaw and nose. “He will be a handsome knight and lord, like his father.”

“You will have to let him go one day,” Harrold reminded her, even if she did not wish to hear it.

“I know, but it does not mean I have to like it. We must be careful in choosing his betrothed. I do not want some harlot sinking her claws into him,” Sansa said with the expectation of many ladies trying to win her son’s favor in the future.

“He needs to wed a lady of the Vale,” Harrold insisted.

“I agree,” Sansa replied, knowing her husband’s heir needed a marriage with a lady from his own lands. Sansa was a northerner, foreign to the Vale. She wanted her son to maintain a firm rule over his bannerman and wedding a girl from another kingdom would not help his cause.

“Ellyn could make a fine match,” Harrold decided. _She is sweet and she will be beautiful, but her father isn’t the lord of his House._

“Possibly,” Sansa said, knowing politically, there were girls in Houses Royce, Grafton, and Waynwood who were better choices. _I would like to choose Ellyn for his lady wife, but we must put our House first._ “If they fall in love and ask for our blessing, then I suppose I could not refuse. There are wiser choices.”

“There are,” Harrold agreed.

“But this all means nothing. They are just children and Ellyn is two years older than Roland. She will likely find another boy’s favor before he thinks to look at girls,” Sansa said, staring at an empty garden.

“Have you thought about what we spoke of earlier?” Harrold dared to ask, knowing how skeptical she was.

“Another child? I do not know,” Sansa said. Part of her longed to have another son, who could run around the Eyrie with a wooden sword, pretending to be a brave knight of the Vale fighting off White Walkers. Another part of her feared tempting fate. Sansa never had any troubles with her pregnancies, but she knew other women were not so lucky. “What if I gave you another girl?”

“I would not mind another girl. I love our daughters,” Harrold said. She could see there was no lie in his words.

“But you would prefer a son,” Sansa said.

“Is that a terrible thing to want?” he asked. Sansa wanted to say yes, but she also knew the reality of the world. Roland was the only male after her husband in House Arryn. As much as it pained her to think of such things, Sansa knew their House would be stronger with another son.

“Yes…and no,” Sansa replied in a cold tone for a hard truth she wished she could ignore. “I will think on this, but if I agree, do not expect more than one child from me. I am not my cousin.”

“No, you are my beloved wife, Lady Sansa Arryn,” Harrold said, carefully running his fingers through her hair again. Sansa liked the flattery and sealed her lips with her husband once again, having him while they were still alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long wait. Rhaegar's POV was really just an introduction to the changes of KL and his plans for the tourney. I hope everyone likes Nymeria. She is probably my favorite OC but I sometimes wonder if too much of her character is not fleshed out in the story. I think I could have done more with the Rhaenys and Visenya scene, but the more I tried to draw things out, the more repetitive and meaningless their words became. Sansa's POV is intended to show she has a good political mind and assists Harrold's rule from the Eyrie without adding too much political intrigue (there can't always be a war or some massive political plot everywhere in Westeros). Next chapter is solely focused on the hunting party in the Kingswood with POVs from Jaehaerys, Daenys, and Queen Daenerys. There will be others.
> 
> Again, please leave comments with questions, critiques, errors I missed, suggestions, POV requests, etc. below.
> 
> Side Notes: I have noticed some of my favorite writers have abandoned their fics or are taking long hiatuses. Do not let a terrible end to S8 ruin the fanfics. (Understand those who have stopped due to life or writers block). I do not usually do this, but if you are not reading A Wolf Apart, you should. And if anyone knows what happened to the fic That Looks on Tempests by Quist, please let me know. That was one of the best starts to a fanfic I have read and I can no longer find it on AO3.


	7. Kingswood

**Prince Jaehaerys Targaryen**

“Jae. Jae. Jae! Wake up!” Jaehaerys did his best to escape the pull of his comfortable feathered bed. He wanted to ignore is twin sister’s voice when he brushed the silver curls from his face to discover a night sky outside his window.

“Go away,” Jaehaerys mumbled into his pillow, unsure and uncaring if his sister heard.

“Jaehaerys, the Kingswood, remember?” Lyarra reminded him. Jaehaerys’ eyes were wide open once he realized he had forgotten this was the morning his father intended to lead the hunting party from the Red Keep to the Kingswood.

“Are they still in the bailey? I cannot miss this. I can’t. Father promised I would get a stag,” Jaehaerys panicked, climbing out of his bed and rushing toward the riding breeches and gambeson he had carefully laid upon his wardrobe trunk the night before.

“If you do not hurry, they will be riding through the King’s Square without us by the time we reach the stables,” Lyarra warned him, standing at his doorway dressed in black breeches and a green gambeson that did not seem fitting for a princess.

Fearing he would disappoint his father and worse, miss the hunt, Jaehaerys gathered his clothes as fast as he could. He could hear his sister laughing as he jerked on his stockings and fumbled with the laces of his leather boots. Jaehaerys did not have the time or mind to care for Lyarra’s amusement at his failing. Jaehaerys had planned for this hunt an entire sennight and now that the morning to ride out of the castle was upon him, he had forgotten about it all.

“Aren’t you forgetting something?” Lyarra said with a knowing smirk on her lips. Jaehaerys started to question everything. He was dressed, his clothes were stowed away on one of the wagons, the hunting knife gifted to him on his nameday was on his belt, and a quiver full of arrows was strapped over his shoulder. _Gods, what am I missing?_

“And Mother says you are the clever one,” Lyarra said with a shake of her head. It was only then, he noticed both of the bows in her hands. Cursing himself, Jaehaerys reached out his hand to take his bow.

“She always tells me you are the clever one,” Jaehaerys replied, grabbing the finely carved bow he was sure would only last him another year before he was old enough to wield one with greater range.

“You are both my clever children,” Queen Daenerys declared after they nearly stumbled into her outside his chambers. Jaehaerys could see she had not changed her mind. She was still dressed in a nightgown, showing no inclination to join the hunting party until the third day.

“We were talking about Mother Visenya,” Lyarra answered for them both as Queen Daenerys embraced them both.

“Well, you are still my clever children. Now go, make our House proud. Go, before your father leaves you behind,” Queen Daenerys said with a laugh and a gentle smile, gesturing toward the stairs at the end of the hallway. Jaehaerys ran toward the stairs with his sister, ready to descend Maegor’s Holdfast until their mother called out, “Lyarra, save some of the game for your brother!”

“I will!” Lyarra yelled, laughing to herself. Lyarra was an excellent archer and better than himself, but Jaehaerys still wanted to defend himself. His sister did not let him, pulling him with her down the spiraling stairs to hurry through the keep with the hope they were not left behind.

In their race against time, it quickly turned into a race against one another. In a sprint through the brazier-lit corridors of Maegor’s Holdfast, Lyarra would bump into his side whenever he started to pull ahead. Whenever his sister began to edge ahead, Jaehaerys would lean into her side. Their laughter filled the halls until they were warned by a guard outside the holdfast that the hunting party was readying the horses.

Jaehaerys would never admit the truth to anyone, but he would rather roam the grounds of the Red Keep or venture the caves of Dragonstone with Lyarra than join his brothers in the training yard. When he did train with sword and shield, more often than not, he was paired with his sister. Lyarra was his twin sister and best friend. They understood each other and they were able to tell each other things without speaking a word.

“There you are!” their mother, Queen Visenya, announced the moment they set food into the outer bailey. All around, he could see his brothers and sisters climbing onto destriers, palfreys, sand steeds, coursers, chargers, and ponies depending on the rider’s preference. “I was beginning to worry. I had thought to send Silver after you.”

“I’m sorry, Father. I didn’t mean to…,” Jaehaerys tried to apologize as his father approached, holding the reins of Jaehaerys’ grey charger. Instead of a scolding, Jaehaerys earned a relaxed hand on his shoulder, telling him everything was fine.

“Jaehaerys, do not fret. Your mother told me you had your things ready three days ago. It isn’t a crime to oversleep. Here, take your horse before they begin to call me your squire,” his father said with a smile, helping him find the stirrups and handing him the reins.

“Race to the King’s Gate?” Lyarra asked, already atop her black courser that matched her smooth raven hair that hung past her shoulders, free of any braid.

“We want to join,” Robb proclaimed, pulling his horse alongside them with Maekar in tow.

“There will be no racing to the King’s Gate,” their mother warned, ruffling his brothers’ silver hair. She continued with a smirk, “Now, when we cross the river and return to the Kingsroad…”

“Robb, Maekar, with me,” their father called out and both his brothers pulled the reins of their steeds, hurrying to join their father at the head of the column.

“Jaehaerys, Lyarra, do look after your cousin,” their mother asked, nodding toward Orys Baratheon, seated atop a pony beside Torrhen and Maelor. “You remember how it was, being the youngest in the hunting party.”

Jaehaerys remembered all too well. The youngest were lucky to kill anything. His cousin was only nine years of age, too young to spear a boar or shoot a stag. Even if Orys had the skill of a seasoned hunter, knowledgeable of the forest they planned to hunt, there were many before him who would have first claim on the game.

“Do you think Uncle has shown him how to skin a deer?” Lyarra asked when their mother was gone, riding to the front of the party near the gatehouse. Jaehaerys shrugged his shoulders, not knowing the answer. _He will learn soon. It is the best he can hope for or the gods are cruel. I did not get a kill on my first hunt._

At their father’s command, the hunting party rode through the main gate and onto the streets of King’s Landing, headed for the King’s Gate. Ghost and Silver led the way, with the King and Queen riding behind. Arthur Dayne, Oswell Whent, Simon Sunglass, and Garlan Tyrell were the Kingsguard riding close behind Jaehaerys’ parents. Jaehaerys was stuck with Lyarra, near the rear of the column, amongst their siblings and dozens of household guard.

Like they always did, Rhaegar and Arya held the rear, making sure none of their brothers or sisters were straggling behind. Jaehaerys thought it silly, knowing none of the men in their household guard would allow such a thing to occur. His older brothers and sisters rode behind them anyway.

The streets and alleys of King’s Landing were quiet. So quiet, Jaehaerys wondered if the smallfolk had gathered their belongings and fled the city. The only signs of life telling him the city remained populated were the gold cloaks watching over the major thoroughfares and the unfortunate souls who woke as early as they did, walking from their homes to wherever they applied their trade.

When their party reached the streets at the foot of Visenya’s Hill, Jaehaerys never laughed harder with his sister when a stumbling drunk wandered from an alley. Eddard surmised there was some bravery in the man’s soul, for even the strongest of ale’s would not be enough to encourage his encounter with Rhaegar’s direwolf, Frost.

The man reached out his hand to pet Frost. Instead of finding an obedient dog, the commoner found himself on his back with fangs inches from his face. Jaehaerys laughed with his siblings as the drunkard pled mercy through slurred words. Rhaegar called off the direwolf while three of their household guard cursed the man and pushed him down the alley, warning to take his head if he approached without consent again.

After the drunkard, their ride through King’s Landing returned to silence and boredom. The gold cloaks at the King’s Gate were ready for them, as were the men who worked the nearest ferry to carry them across the Blackwater Rush. The gold cloaks seemed well enough trained. They went about their business and did their duty, clearing the road ahead without staring at them.

It was the ferrymen and the smallfolk they crossed paths with outside the city walls that reminded Jaehaerys his parents were not ordinary. Part of him suspected none of his family would be looked upon as even simple royalty for generations to come. His whole life, he noticed how the smallfolk looked at his father and mothers. Their eyes were filled with wonder and awe. They had returned dragons to the world, united Westeros and Essos, and defeated an enemy many thought to be tales told to children smaller and more foolish than himself.

“I have won!” Lyarra declared, bringing their race to a halt in the middle of the Kingsroad with the Kingswood surrounding them on all sides. Jaehaerys felt a certain unease because of the histories of the forest, until he remembered there were outriders scanning the road ahead and unseen men checking the woods for bandits or worse.

“Silver won,” Jaehaerys replied, nodding to their mother’s white-grey direwolf looking back at them as if she expected another race down the Kingsroad. Their mother had sent the wolf with them and Silverclaw circled overhead for good measure.

The sight of Silverclaw’s silver scales glimmering in the sunlight saddened Jaehaerys. Silverclaw’s roars and graceful maneuvers through the sky made him miss his own dragon egg, left behind in his chambers inside Maegor’s Holdfast. Not an hour passed when he did not think of his egg and not a day passed, he did not wish for a dragon to hatch. He suspected his brothers and sisters felt the same. Lyarra did. He pitied the youngest, who did not have eggs of their own.

“I can’t wait until we have dragons of our own. We will no longer have to beg Jon or Dany or Rhaegar to take us,” Lyarra said, watching Vermithrex join Silverclaw in the sky while they waited for the slow-moving train of horses and wagons that made up the hunting party to catch up. “I will be the first dragonrider in the Kingsguard.”

Jaehaerys could not reason why, but his sister’s proclamation made him feel sad. She always said she wanted to wear the white cloak like Brienne of Tarth and protect their parents from the evil men who meant them harm. It was her dream and Jaehaerys wanted that for her, but something inside his heart told him he truly did not wish that future for her. _Mothers always said she was meant for something greater. What is greater than being a sworn member of the Kingsguard?_

“What about Valarr? He is older,” Jaehaerys said, expecting his brother would be the next sworn brother of the Kingsguard.

“Valarr? I will best him, you will see,” Lyarra swore with her usual confidence.

“He is very good, sister,” Jaehaerys warned Lyarra, not wanting her to waste away years of her life, hoping for a dream that may never come. Ser Barristan was old and Ser Jonothor was getting older. Jaehaerys hated even thinking about it, but he wondered if their time would come too late. Lyarra would be too old to swear the sacred vows and their parents would choose a younger knight to wear the white cloak.

Silently, Jaehaerys prayed his sister would never see her chance to join the Kingsguard. He did not want Ser Barristan and Ser Jonothor to die. Seeing another in their armor seemed queer and unthinkable. _Surely there is something greater for her. Mothers said so. She could lead Father’s armies or rule a city in Essos. Pentos or Braavos._

“I told you, I will best him,” Lyarra returned with a glare. “What do you want to do when you are of age? Rhaegar will rule Dragonstone, Eddard will have Summerhall with Senya, Aegon and Nymeria will go to Fyrestone, and Jon and Dany will live at Winterhall. Where will you go? What will you do?”

“I don’t know,” Jaehaerys admitted. When he was little, he dreamed of becoming a knight like Ser Arthur Dayne and he would be called the Sword of the Skies, riding a dragon into battle. He was only eleven and had many years to improve, but Jaehaerys thought himself wise enough to know many of his brothers would go on to be better swordsmen than himself.

“Father says you could rule a city one day,” Lyarra responded to his disbelief. “What? It’s true.”

“He never told me,” Jaehaerys muttered, looking down the road from whence they came. He could see Ghost trotting ahead of the train with his parents just behind and Targaryens banners billowing in the wind at their backs.

“Why do you think he lets you sit with him as he writes letters all the time? You are the youngest of us he brings to Small Council meetings,” Lyarra added. _I have only been to a handful and said nothing. He told me to say nothing, only listen._

“How do you know these things?” Jaehaerys demanded, suspicious of his sister’s words.

“Rhaegar,” Lyarra answered. Jaehaerys accepted his sister’s response, never knowing her or his oldest brother to be liars.

It was at sunset on the second day when their hunting party made camp for good. Jaehaerys brimmed with excitement when they abandoned the Kingsroad for an almost hidden, unkept path that carried them half a mile into the forest. At its end, they were greeted by a field as large as the Red Keep with tents, two great pavilions, and Targaryen banners billowing in the wind.

When the narrow, grass-covered path met its end, Jaehaerys spurred his horse forward, racing around his parents to reach his tent and claim his pillowed bed. This wasn’t the first time his family had camped in this field and he made for the same tent he slept in before, or so it stood where he had previously slept. Unlike his chambers in Maegor’s Holdfast, he would be sharing his current quarters with Daeron and Torrhen.

Jaehaerys only emerged from his tent after he had carefully arranged his bow, a quiver full of arrows, his hunting knife, and his clothes for the morning hunt around the pile of pillows he would call his bed. Outside his quarters, he was greeted by a starry sky and a cool summer night. The dragons made their lair at the eastern edge of the field, nearest the Kingsroad.

Part of him pitied the men who bothered to erect the two great pavilions at the center of the encampment. They would not be occupied until his two other mothers and the rest of his sisters arrived. His father preferred sitting around the fires with their family and the men who served House Targaryen. Jaehaerys took the place Lyarra had saved for him after avoiding the direwolves who ran through the rows of tents like Dothraki steeds racing down a dragonroad.

“Father should have let us hunt in the dark,” Lyarra mumbled, eating the same hare that was skinned and cooked before them. The gamekeeper seemed to have plenty of hares waiting for them. Jaehaerys looked over his shoulder to spy his father speaking with Monterys Velaryon and Gendry Baratheon. His father looked happy, jesting with lords he could call his friends.

“The gamekeeper said there are elk not far from here,” Jaehaerys told his sister what he had heard. _Why don’t you ask father? Our sisters make sad eyes and he gives them what they want. He may say yes._

“If our wolves do not get them first,” Lyarra replied. Jaehaerys selfishly kept quiet, deciding he did not need his sister testing her ability to get what she wants from their father.

“Seven hells! What was that?” Robb asked as Orys nearly leapt to his feet, hearing the same thing they did. Jaehaerys thought the howl came from an ordinary wolf, perhaps even one from his Aunt’s pack that came with her from the Riverlands to settle in the Stormlands. After seeing his brothers’ reaction, he knew it was something else.

“There are ghosts in these woods,” Aegon said in passing. Jaehaerys thought to argue with his brother, but Aegon paid them no mind, continuing his conversation with Valarr. Their older siblings were huddled around another fire, joined only by Arya, Dany, Corlys Velaryon, Daenys, and Torrhen for a time before they sent him away.

“Ghosts?” Orys asked, nearly trembling at the thought.

“They do not tell of the ghosts of the Kingswood at Storm’s End, cousin?” Daemon asked, seated across from Jaehaerys. Through the flickering flames, Jaehaerys could see the mischief churning in his brother’s violet eyes. Orys shook his head, looking more nervous, inviting more torment.

“You have not heard of the ghosts of the Kingswood? Do not go to sleep tonight, little cousin. I will not. These ghosts hate dragons. And you know what?” Benjen asked, leaning forward as if he were about to share some important secret. “They hate stags even more.”

“Do not listen to Prince Benjen, little lord,” Ser Arthur Dayne appeared, shaking his head. If it wasn’t their father putting an end to Daemon and Benjen’s schemes, it was Ser Arthur or Ser Oswell. “There are no ghosts in these woods. If there were, I would know.”

“You fought many battles in these woods,” Lyarra noted, earning a nod of confirmation from the Sword of the Morning.

“Aye, I did, Princess,” Arthur Dayne replied, taking a knee between Orys Baratheon and Torrhen. “Many small battles.”

“The Kingswood Brotherhood,” Jaehaerys followed, remembering the stories of the Kingsguard’s great deeds in the forest.

“I am going to be a knight, just like you, Ser Arthur,” Daeron proudly claimed for all around the fire to hear.

“You need to squire for a knight before you can be knighted,” Daemon told Daeron. Daemon sounded as doubtful as Jaehaerys had felt. _Daeron will never be a squire. He is too strong-willed and impatient. And it would not help matters that he would be a better sword than almost any knight he would squire for._

“Not if I ride into battle, fighting for Father. Ser Jorah was knighted after Grandfather sacked Pyke. We can win great battles for our House, like Father did in Essos, fighting slavers,” Daeron argued, earning nods of approval from Jaehaerys’ younger brothers.

“A true knight does not pray for war, Daeron, nor does he seek it out,” their father made his presence known, mussing Daeron’s silver curls. Jaehaerys returned his father’s smile, waiting for his own hair to be mussed as his father circled the fire to sit beside Lyarra. “And the Kingswood Brotherhood was not solely defeated by the tip of a sword.”

“When the king sent us into the Kingswood in search of these bandits, we could not find them. They knew the woods better than we did. Whenever we asked where to find them, we were always too late or in the wrong place,” Ser Arthur continued after Jaehaerys’ father gave him a look.

“The smallfolk lied to you,” Jaehaerys said, now confused. From what he could recall, the smallfolk fought with Ser Arthur or helped him in some way.

“They did. They did not trust me. They did not trust any knights and certainly none of the Kingsguard,” Ser Arthur replied.

“But why?” Torrhen asked, looking as confused as Orys Baratheon, sitting next to him.

“Because my grandfather had done nothing for them, the Brotherhood had. Ser Arthur saw this. He petitioned my grandfather. The smallfolk in this forest were allowed to hunt more of this land. They were given other rights, rights they deserved. When the smallfolk saw knights and a king cared, they turned on the outlaws. Ser Arthur was told truths and the Brotherhood could no longer hide,” their Father told them, leaving out the battles, to Daeron’s clear disappointment.

“And then Ser Arthur defeated them in battle. All the great knights have won great victories. I will be a great knight, Father,” Daeron swore, not understanding what their father was trying to tell them.

“Daeron, not all battles have to be fought with the sword,” their father replied, pausing to consider his next words. Jaehaerys leaned forward. He could hear his mother’s voice, telling him to listen to his father’s lessons. “I know you want to be a brave knight, but I promise you, war is not what you think it is. You only know the stories sung in songs or told at feast. You have never heard what war costs and you will not hear it from me this night. Just remember, my son, men on both sides of any war die. Pray you do not see any wars in your time. The men fighting these battles will be your brothers and cousins, your nephews and sons, our household guard and Unsullied, and thousands of other men who wish to see their family again. Ask any true knight who has won glory on the battlefield. He will tell you he would trade the glory and the songs for the men he has lost.”

“Your father is right,” Gendry Baratheon said, collecting Orys with a tap on the shoulder. “I lost many friends in the War of the Four Kings. I’d rather go on without my knighthood if it meant saving their lives, seeing no wars.”

“Maekar, Robb, Elia, Maelor…,” their father said as he stood, pulling on Daeron and Torrhen’s jerkins to stand. “Find your beds. We will be waking before sunrise. The first at the pavilion, ready with their bow and quiver, will get the first elk.”

With their younger siblings whisked away to their tents, Jaehaerys fought off his tired eyes. He did not realize how tiring their journey had been until Lyarra, Benjen, and Daemon were all that remained. He thought to invite Aeryn, Edric, and Rickard to join them, but they seemed intent on their march toward the pavilions.

For the rest of the night, Jaehaerys plotted the next seven days with his sister. They discussed the streams they would watch, the game they planned to hunt, who would loose the first arrow, and how they would prepare their kills to be cooked. Lyarra also made him swear to spar with her before supper every night until they returned to King’s Landing. Jaehaerys silently hoped she would forget the practice swords hidden in one of the carts. The last thing he wanted was the practice yard to come with them to the Kingswood.

“Children, wake up,” his mother’s voice broke his sleep. Jaehaerys’ eyes fluttered opened. It was cold and he had not found his tent. His mother was standing over him, wearing a dark red robe. The crescent moon was bright enough to make her silver hair shine in its light. “Lyarra.”

Jaehaerys took in his surroundings while they waited for his sister’s answer. The grass was wet, telling him morning was upon them. They were the only ones awake, besides Silver and the dozen or more household guard that protected the perimeter of their camp. _Am I late again?_

“What?” his sister grumbled, lifting her head off his shoulder. She had fallen asleep too, with an arm wrapped across his chest and a hand clutching his arm. As soon as his sister brushed her raven hair from her face and realized they were asleep next to the simmering ashes of the fire, she was on her feet.

“You still have another hour,” their mother cautioned, wiping the sheen of sweat that covered her brow with the back of her hand. “If I had known the both of you were asleep, out here in the cold, I would have come with wool blankets at the very least. Tell me you are not sick.”

“We are fine, Mother,” Lyarra spoke for them both. Jaehaerys found her worry needless, considering neither he nor any of his family had ever fallen ill from a common cold.

“Forgive me. A mother must worry for her children,” Queen Visenya replied, kissing both of their brows. “If you silent and quick about it, I think you should be the first at the pavilions. Your Father meant what he said.”

And with his mother’s counsel, Jaehaerys ran toward the carefully pitched line of tents, searching for his own at the end. Disappointment filled his bones when he found Rhaegar and Arya already outside their respective tents, inspecting the feathers of their arrows. Jon and Dany emerged from another tent, laughing over something foolish, he was sure. _They kiss too often. Aegon and Nymeria, too._

Expecting to find his brothers awake and dressing into their hunting attire, Jaehaerys instead found a sleeping tent with no signs of his brothers waking any time soon. This was his chance and Jaehaerys attempted to be as silent as his Aunt Arya, holding his breath and taking care with every step. Once he was dressed, he ran for the pavilion in a sprint without care for whoever he woke.

“I win again,” Lyarra said, standing before the nearest pavilion. Their mother was standing behind her, smirking while turning his sister’s raven hair into a simple northern braid. If it were any of his brothers, he would have fumed and wallowed in his defeat. Since it was Lyarra who beat him, all Jaehaerys could do was smile and laugh with his sister.

**Prince Brandon Targaryen**

It was only their second day hunting in the Kingswood, but Brandon was determined to spear a wild boar. His mothers and sisters were expected to arrive on the morrow. Neither his brothers nor his father had found a trace of boar. After nearly two days of hunting, their kills consisted of elk, deer, hares, and one turkey. The hares were good practice for his youngest siblings.

Brandon thought to give up and return to the woods where deer and elk were aplenty. That was until his direwolf, Quickstream, caught scent of a wild boar near a gentle stream that had the clearest water he had ever seen in the Kingswood. His direwolf ran to the water with such speed, Brandon decided he was correct in naming his white furred direwolf. Within a moon of his birth, the little pup frightened them all, running into a stream with a strong current near the western shores of Dragonstone. Instead of drowning, the little white direwolf swam as well as any fish and thus earned his name.

Dany and Arya argued they should return to camp, reasoning the day was growing late and they did not know how far behind the prey they were. Brandon insisted they follow his direwolf. His sisters had already killed two stags for themselves. Luckily, his brothers and Ser Simon Sunglass agreed to follow him across shallowest crossing he could find.

On the other side of the water, Quickstream was waiting for them, shaking his coat until it was as dry as he could hope for. Leaning on what his father had taught him and his brothers, Brandon followed his wolf until they came upon the first signs of the wild boar. Once Brandon laid eyes on the fresh tracks, he knew they were not far behind. Quickstream or one of the other direwolves could have scouted ahead and even killed the beast themselves, but Brandon and his brothers commanded them to remain by their side.

After cutting and weaving their way through the brush of a relatively flat forest floor, the boar’s tracks led them to a narrow, wooded valley. The hills on either side were no higher than sixty feet and the ground that laid between them no wider than one hundred. Brandon wasn’t entirely sure, but he guessed they were close to the boar’s den.

“Where are they going?” Brandon asked when he turned around to see Valarr and Daenys retracing their path.

“Daenys said she was tired and wanted to return to camp before nightfall,” Eddard replied, coming to stand behind him, inspecting the hills looming ahead.

“Then she should have stayed in King’s Landing,” Brandon grumbled, wondering why she even thought to come along. _She does not like hunting. She does not even like archery or falconry._

“Leave her be,” Dany hissed, coming to stand on his other side. _What did I say? She should not be here. And now Valarr is going to miss this. I could have used his spear with mine._

“She could not even hold her bow earlier. You saw her. It was Valarr who hit the stag, not Daenys,” Brandon replied. He felt sorry for Valarr. Daenys could hardly walk a hundred feet through the Kingswood without his assistance.

“I said you leave her be,” Dany warned him again, keeping her voice low so as not to scare off the game. Brandon thought that was the end of it until he felt a smack on the back of his head. Arya was the culprit. It was unmistakable, the way her grey eyes bored into his soul, threatening to end him if he said another word. “You are such a fool, little brother…,” Dany continued, shaking her head at him.

“Careful, Brandon,” Eddard cautioned him with a whisper and nudge. Brandon led them through the valley, keeping his eyes on the tracks that appeared then disappeared and then appeared again. This was his first time leading his brothers on a boar hunt.

“Valarr was supposed to be here. We agreed to take this one together if possible,” Brandon said, wishing his brother was with them.

“Do not worry about Valarr. I do not think he will miss this,” Eddard whispered with a smirk and a light chuckle.

“What is that supposed to mean?” he demanded before returning his eyes to the crooked path ahead.

“I will tell you when we return to camp,” Eddard replied, pushing aside a low hanging branch as silently as he could so the rest could follow.

After walking another five hundred feet, Brandon could see the valley was at its end, where the two hills met. The ground ahead was steeper and rougher than the slopes behind them. There was nowhere for the wild boar to go. Knowing he was tracking no deer that would simply scamper away at the first crack of a twig or rustling of leaves, Brandon slowed their advance. _This beast will attack us if we are not careful._

Quickstream was at his side again and Brandon was sure the direwolf would not leave him even if commanded. A low grumble from his wolf told him they were close. Step by step, he kept his eyes open and alert, looking for the first sign of movement in the brush that could mask their prey’s own attack.

“There,” Corlys spoke softly, pointing over his shoulder. Brandon followed his cousin’s direction and spied the boar’s den. Each of their direwolves were focused on the den, telling them the boar was there. The direwolves told no lies and Brandon trusted their noses over his own eyes.

Brandon led them to the boar, but it was Rhaegar who took charge with their father away and Ser Simon Sunglass watching their rear. Brandon could sense the knight’s unease ever since Valarr and Daenys abandoned their company and returned to camp alone.

“Brandon, you will lead. Remember, be sure-footed and choose your ground wisely. I will be to your left and Eddard, your right. Be patient and let him get close, but not too close. You are the best of us with a spear, but do not only aim for the head. If you can wound the boar, wound it. Aegon will be behind you with a second spear,” Rhaegar instructed him as they all huddled around him. Brandon nodded his head, always trusting in his brother’s plans. Corlys remained vigilant in his watch while they plotted the kill.

“I trust you have not brought any strongwine with you,” Aegon said, patting his shoulder.

“No, why?” Brandon asked.

“We cannot have you shaming our House. They still mock Robert Baratheon’s name,” Aegon said with an amused look about his face. _They mock him for many more things. A short-lived rebellion, his drinking, the whoring, and having no trueborn children of his own._

“Just be careful and sure with your aim,” Rhaegar reassured him as they broke apart and spread out before their approach.

Everyone remained silent while Brandon took the first steps. Rhaegar and Eddard went with him while Aegon stayed his shadow. He did not look, but he was sure Dany and Arya had their bows ready should each of them fail to bring down the boar. The silence came to an end when Rhaegar gave the command and the direwolves began to growl, loud enough to draw the boar from its den.

Moments passed before Brandon heard its snort and squeal. Boars were wild beasts but not wild or foolish enough to attack a direwolf. Quickstream, White Fang, and Snowstorm were spread out amongst the trees to their left. Frost, Dunk, Suvion, and Arghurys formed a line to their right, warding off any escape. Seconds passed before the ferns and thorn bushes ruffled near the den.

“Spears!” Brandon called out, raising his own in the air, aiming for the small opening in the brush ahead. It was the only place for the boar to go without being torn apart by a pack of direwolves that knew how to hunt together.

Brandon waited, watching and listening for the beast charging his way. Just as Jon shouted behind him, he spotted the boar emerging from the bushes. The boar was bigger than he expected, but it only brought a smile to his face when he firmed his grip. Remembering his brother’s counsel, Brandon was patient and waited for the animal to reach the large roots of a nearby tree. It was then, he threw his spear and struck the boar in its shoulder when it was forced to change its direction to avoid the roots.

Before he could see the boar was not going down without a fight, Brandon reached for the second spear held by Aegon. His eyes stayed on the boar and its weakened charge. With both hands gripping his spear, Brandon prepared for his own charge. The ground before him was flat and dry and not by chance.

As Brandon charged the beast, another spear pierced the boar’s side. Brandon paid it little mind, focusing on his footing and his aim. As his father taught him, he angled his spear and thrust its tip into the boar’s skull as it lost its own strength from Rhaegar’s spear.

“Three spears, brother!” Aegon said, pulling the first spear Brandon threw from the boar’s pierced shoulder.

“It is the largest I have seen,” Jon proclaimed as everyone converged around the corpse. The direwolves stayed their ground, but Brandon could see it in their eyes. They were hungry and ready to tear the boar apart if they were alone.

“Best you hurry, my Princes. Nightfall will be on us before we know it. Carrying that thing back to camp will not be easy,” Ser Simon Sunglass observed, spurring on Brandon and Aegon to tie the boar’s feet. It would take four of them alone to haul it back to camp, tied to the wooden pole hoisted over their shoulders.

**Princess Daenys Targaryen**

Nothing had worked. Daenys had attempted flattery and the honest truth many times. She could not count how many times she had told Valarr she loved him. Every time she said the words, he promised he loved her and left her with a kiss on the cheek a brother leaves his sister. Never once did she find the courage to explain she was in love with him. She still did not find that courage and she could never reason why.

From the Red Keep to the King’s Gate and from the Blackwater Rush to their camp in the Kingswood, Daenys rode at her brother’s side. She felt ridiculous and out of place, wearing muddied leather boots, rough riding breeches, an uncomfortable tunic, and a black leather jerkin. These were clothes her sisters preferred, but not Daenys. Daenys preferred colorful dresses made of silks so smooth, one could forget they were wearing clothes at all. But she wore them, all for Valarr.

She tried everything before they reached camp. Daenys rode close to Valarr, leaning into his side and laughing at his jokes. When he spoke of their retreat to the Kingswood, she played the part of an interested listener. She even feigned an interest in his dreams of becoming a knight of the Kingsguard and his ambitions in the training yard, as much as it pained her.

It was the second day of hunting in the Kingswood and Daenys had thought she was close to winning Valarr’s heart. At the very least, she hoped for a lustful stare or a grope of her breast, despite how pitiful it made her feel. Before midday, they came upon a stag with a great set of antlers upon its head. Dany spoke for her and insisted she hold the bow.

Daenys had no interest in killing the stag, but it was her chance to have Valarr close. She never claimed to be even a middling archer, but she did not need Valarr to assist her. She asked him anyway, insisting he whisper how she should correct her form and hit her mark. Purposefully, she did not follow his advice and forced him closer.

While Valarr raised her elbow and traced his fingers over her own that held the bow, Daenys leaned into his front. She thought the subtle sway of her ass against his cock would do the trick. Again, she failed. Valarr only backed away, playing the part of an ignorant fool. Daenys loosed the arrow and hit the stag.

“How long will this take?” Daenys complained, walking behind all her brothers and sisters. Her frustration was getting the better of her and the stream of cool water they crossed was her last chance. She meant to take Senya’s advice to heart.

“An hour, two, more? I am not sure,” Valarr offered. _Good. Brandon can have his stupid boar. I pray it is fat and heavy. The harder it is to carry, the better. I will have Valarr…I think, yes, I will have him. Senya promised._

“I am tired, Valarr. Can we please go back? My feet ache and my arm is tired from carrying this,” Daenys complained, fluttering her eyes and pouting her lips. She prayed it was not too much. _Dany and Arya would cut my tongue out if they did not know my intentions._

“Daenys…,” Valarr started to say something, but she could tell he was holding back his frustration with her. She could see it in those dark violet eyes, the same as hers.

“Please, brother, I beg you. I cannot continue. I am sorry. I am truly sorry. I was a fool to think I could do this. I am not worthy of being a Princess of House Targaryen, I know. I just…,” Daenys said, fighting to restrain the smile that wanted to spread across her face. _I do not know how to win your heart, but I know how find your protection and care._

“Stop it, you are the best of princesses. Dany and Arya have their talents, but so do you. You are far better at court, treating with the lords and ladies, listening and learning. That is just as important as swinging a sword or loosing an arrow,” Valarr comforted her in a hushed tone. He stole the bow in her hand with one hand and used the other to gently soothe her tired arm. “Ser Simon, we are headed back.”

“I do not think that wise, my Prince. We should stick together. The King…,” Ser Simon Sunglass tried to protest with an unpleased look on his face.

“Daenys is not feeling well. My father would want her returned to camp immediately. If something were to happen…,” Valarr lied for her. _He never lies. I have never heard him lie, not once. Does this mean he loves me? No, I should not entertain such thoughts. Not yet._

“We have our direwolves,” Daenys found her voice, looking to her grey direwolf, Skye. She named her for the grey sky she was born under on Dragonstone. Valarr’s black direwolf, Drummer, stood next to Skye. Drummer was no longer the scared little pup that was afraid to leave the Stone Drum until he was two moons old. The wolf howled and cried whenever they tried to bring him into the yard and Valarr named him after the keep he felt safe in.

“Go. If you come across trouble, drop what you can and run. No heroics, my Prince,” Ser Simon warned them both, giving her brother a pointed look.

“I swear it. If we are cornered by outlaws or worse, I have my sword,” Valarr replied, letting his hand fall to the sword sheathed at his hip.

Daenys feared the retracing of their steps would last an eternity. Instead, it felt as if they had returned to the flowing stream they had crossed in mere minutes. Time passed just as fast as the beating of her heart. Her chance to win Valarr over was upon her and she felt more nervous than she had ever felt in her life. She was risking everything. _Valarr will love me or hate me or worse, be disgusted with me._

“What are you doing?” Valarr asked when he turned to see her unlacing her leather boots. Daenys inspected the stream again and reckoned there were places deep enough to swim. Even better, the water was clear and she could see the bottom, mostly pebbles and rocks smoothed by a never ending current.

“Swimming,” she replied, tossing both boots aside.

“You said you were tired, that we should return to camp,” Valarr said with displeasure in his voice.

“I did and I lied,” Daenys said, staring into his eyes, slowly removing the jerkin she felt compelled to wear.

“Daenys…,” Valarr started until she lifted her tunic over her shoulders to reveal her breasts. Hers were not as large as Nymeria’s but she hoped they would be before her fourteenth nameday. She could tell he liked them. He was gaping until he was not, remembering his courtesies and forcing himself to look in the other direction, at nothing but trees and grass.

“What? You have seen naked girls before. You have seen me naked before,” Daenys spoke up, pushing down her breeches and smallclothes. When she looked down, she wondered if the she should have shaved the thatch above her sex. She knew there were ladies of similar age in the Crownlands who did so. _I should have asked Senya or Nymeria._

“That was not the same,” Valarr muttered. She could see the internal battle her brother was fighting. He wanted to look, but honor and his dreams of wearing the white cloak of a Kingsguard stopped him. _He has seen me. I must stop being the silly girl. I must tell him._

“Valarr,” Daenys said, leaving her clothes behind to walk down the bank of the stream. Slowly, Daenys trekked through the knee-high water where they had earlier crossed to stand with her twin brother. She came behind him and reached for his jaw, gently forcing him to look into her eyes. “Look at me. Look at me, brother. I love you. I am in love with you. I always have been. I should have said it clearer before, but I was always afraid. Afraid of your rejection and afraid you would leave me. But I am not afraid, not anymore. I want to be with you. Look at me and tell me you do not want to be with me.”

“Daenys, I…,” Valarr tried to fight it, but Daenys could tell he wanted her. Before he could say something stupid or talk himself out of his true feelings, Daenys stood on the tips of her toes and seized his lips. _All this time, all these moons, I could never tell. Now I know. Now I know!_

She was passionate and forceful, plunging her tongue into his mouth after deciding his lips were not enough. Daenys had been desperate for this moment to happen, but as passionate as she was, Valarr surprised her with his own passion. He kissed her just as fervently and then, even more so when his tongue teased hers. Daenys brimmed with joy, knowing she no longer needed to fight for Valarr.

Valarr was claiming her, with his lips on hers and his hands resting on her hips. The longer they kissed, the more Daenys realized neither of them knew what they were doing. She had never kissed a boy before and she was sure he had never kissed a girl. None of it mattered. She finally had Valarr and she was not going to let him go.

“Are you going to join me?” Daenys asked when their lips finally parted and she had the chance to gaze upon her Valyrian prince again. When her eyes met his, she could feel his hands retreat from her ass. As soon as they were gone, she missed the feeling and wanted him daring to touch her again.

“Join you?” Valarr replied with a confused look.

“You have seen me. I hardly think it fair that I have not seen you,” Daenys responded, allowing her eyes to fall to his breeches and his hard cock that was fighting to escape. “Well?” she continued before turning around to walk further downstream until she reached a point deep enough to swim.

If her words were not enough to convince, the sway of her hips were. Valarr discarded his clothes faster than she thought possible and rushed to the water’s edge. She laughed when nearly tumbled over into the water, losing his footing on the wet rocks. Her laughter ended when his arms were holding her and his cock was pressed against her stomach.

“Gods, I feel like a blind fool,” Valarr admitted after they kissed and touched each other where they dared. Daenys wanted his fingers to at least tease her folds, but she knew her brother. Honor meant everything to him and she was sure he would refuse to her pleasure her in that way on the day of their first kiss.

“And deaf, do not forget that,” Daenys reminded him, even though she could hear Nymeria’s voice telling her to speak up. Her sister always told her she was too quiet and timid. _She was right. I should have taken what I wanted from the beginning. We could have been together moons ago._

“Aye,” Valarr agreed, running a hand through her soaked hair. Daenys could not help herself and leaned forward to kiss him again. Her breasts were resting against his chest and her legs wrapped around his waist, fighting to keep warm. “I am sorry sister, I have done wrong by you.”

“Done wrong by me? What do you mean? You have not done wrong by me,” Daenys said, trying to discover what was going on inside his heart.

“I should have seen how beautiful you were before. Not like this. It is your eyes and your lips and the way you smile. The way your hair looks under the moonlight…gods, I hate myself for only seeing it now and…,” Valarr apologized until Daenys silenced him with another kiss. She did not think herself vain, but his compliments pleased her more than any compliments she had received in her life.

“Wait, do you not like…,” Daenys let her eyes fall to her naked body, now distorted by the water. She could see the panic in his eyes. Her teasing had its intended effect.

“Of course, it’s just…I meant you did not need…,” Valarr stumbled over himself until she placed her fingers over his mouth.

“I know what you meant, but I do not regret it. I love you and I think you love me,” she said.

“I do,” Valarr said forcefully. His tone sounded more forceful than she had ever heard.

“I needed to open your eyes and now I have. Senya said it would work and she was right,” Daenys finished. _I should thank her later._

“That does not make it right,” Valarr said, torturing himself with his own shame.

“We love each other and have seen each other. I think that is right,” Daenys said as Valarr spun her around in the stream. Unlike before, their kiss did not feel rushed or nervous. _This is right. This is good. It feels like we have been together a thousand years._

A sudden growl broke them apart, demanding their attention. Daenys saw Skye and Drummer at the water’s edge. Both direwolves were staring at them and began looking back at the woods behind them. Daenys did not understand what the wolves were doing until Valarr cursed under his breath.

“Our clothes,” Daenys warned Valarr. No more words were required. Valarr left her and she felt cold again, watching him climb out of the water. She wanted to laugh, watching him run for their clothes as naked as his first nameday. It was difficult to keep her eyes off his cock when he ran along the stream with their clothes, boots, bows, and his sword. It all looked ridiculous, but they did not wish to be discovered.

Daenys followed Valarr, swimming further downstream until she found a decent-sized rock to hide behind. Skye and Drummer were loyal companions and to her relief, did their duty hiding amongst the trees. While Valarr hid their belongings behind a bush near the embankment, she kept her eyes on the crossing.

Time passed and she started to doubt their wolves until she spotted Frost and Snowstorm leading the hunting party through the shallow water. Rhaegar and Brandon were the first to appear, with the wooden pole resting on their shoulders. Behind them came the dead boar, and Eddard and Aegon supporting the other end of the pole that carried their kill. Corlys Velaryon followed, laughing at something Dany or Arya said.

The last to make the crossing was Ser Simon Sunglass and the other direwolves. Daenys thought they were going to remain unnoticed until her breath hitched at the sight of White Fang pausing in the middle of the crossing. The wolf was looking at her and so was Ser Simon. _Curse that beast. Curse Egg and his stupid wolf._

“It’s fine, they cannot see us,” Valarr whispered in her ear with his hard cock resting against her ass. His voice was calming and his touch exciting. Daenys thought to doubt him until Ser Simon said something to the direwolf and they both turned to continue their march back to camp. “See, I told you.”

“What should we do? They will be searching for us when they return,” Daenys asked, dreading the prospect of her father sending out their household guard in search of them. They would be forced to explain everything. _We cannot tell Father the truth. What will he think of me? And what will he do to Valarr?_

“Did you see that boar? We will catch them before they reach camp,” Valarr replied, leaving a loving peck on her lips when she turned around to face him.

“And how do we explain our hair? Mine will not dry before we return,” Daenys asked. _I did not think of it before._

“I am sure we will think of something. Our brothers and sisters will say nothing. Neither will Corlys. As for Simon, we will have to take our chances,” Valarr said before another kiss.

“Shouldn’t we be leaving?” Daenys asked.

“Not yet. I still want to kiss you,” Valarr answered with his eyes admiring her breasts instead of her face. He had already seen her breasts, but his admiration still made her skin flush.

“Is that all you want to do?” Daenys asked, daring to let her fingers wrap around his cock. Valarr stepped away before she could stroke his length. _Did I make a terrible mistake?_

“Not yet, Daenys. I love you and I swear by the old gods and new I will wed you, but this would not be proper. I must…,” Valarr said with a nervous look on his face. _He isn’t ready for that. I shouldn’t have._

“I understand. I am sorry,” Daenys apologized, hanging her head while she regretted what she had done.

“Do not be sorry, not with me,” Valarr said, gently lifting her chin with his hand.

“You can touch my breasts,” Daenys invited her brother, seeing his gaze return to them again. “I want you to.”

This time, Valarr did not allow his notions of honor get in the way. Daenys reveled in the pleasure of his hand cupping a breast and his fingers teasing her hard nipples. While he acquainted himself with her breasts and kneaded them both, Daenys closed her eyes and imagined what this would feel like with Valarr inside her. All she could rely on was her own experiences with self-pleasure and Arya’s description of what it felt like to be with someone. And like her eldest sister had told her, it was all over too soon and she was gathering her clothes to return to their camp.

**Queen Daenerys Targaryen**

“I heard you tracked the deer this morning,” Daenerys said as she walked from the pavilion with her arm around Jaehaerys. He was the only child she did not get a chance to speak to after arriving at the encampment.

“It was mostly Lyarra. She found their footprints,” Jaehaerys replied as they marched their way toward the end of tents.

“Your father says you both did well. I am proud of you,” Daenerys said, wishing he was not so modest like his father.

“Proud of me for what?” Jaehaerys asked with a furrowed brow. _Everything._

“For being a good prince. For being a good son,” she said before leaving a peck on his temple, much to his chagrin. “And being a good brother. Most boys would shun their sisters and want them as far away as possible on a hunt.”

“Desmond Grimm told me he hates his sister,” Jaehaerys said.

“Then he is a fool,” Daenerys assured Jaehaerys, assuming Desmond Grimm’s sister was not so terrible.

When they arrived at Jaehaerys’ tent, Daenerys pushed aside the tent flap first, hoping to say goodnight to her sons before they were asleep. Torrhen was the first she laid eyes on, asleep on a pile of pillows to her left. She smiled at how peaceful he looked before turning to her right to see Rhaella laughing at something Daeron said.

“Rhaella, you should be in your tent with your sisters. Your brother has another long day ahead of him,” Daenerys warned her daughter, who looked displeased to see her. Rhaella looked more and more like her every day.

“But Daeron said he wanted to stay. He promised we would go riding and…,” Rhaella said before Daenerys stopped her.

“Your brother was being kind. You can ride with me and your sisters. Let Daeron have fun with your brothers,” Daenerys told her daughter. Daeron would do whatever Rhaella asked, even if he did not want to do it. _She can go a day without him._

“Mother…,” Daeron started while Jaehaerys made his way to the far side of the tent to find his sleep.

“No, you are hunting with your brothers on the morrow. I will hear no more of this. Rhaella, you are coming with me,” Daenerys commanded. She knew he would hate it, but she kissed Daeron’s brow before pulling up the covers to his chin.

“Do not look so angered,” Daenerys warned her daughter. She could see the temper raging underneath those amethyst eyes, even in the dark of night. “What if I promised you could fly with me on Drogon in the morning. You and me and Lya, perhaps? We could search for the villages hidden deep in the forest or we could fly as far south as Felwood.”

“I always fly with Father,” Rhaella pouted, hanging her head.

“Would it be so terrible, flying with me?” she asked, hoping her daughter’s temper would pass. Daenerys waited for answer, but none came from Rhaella’s mouth before they reached her tent.

“I will come wake you in the morning. I love you,” Daenerys spoke up before her daughter slid into her tent.

“I love you too, Mother,” Rhaella whispered before disappearing into the tent. Daenerys waited outside the girls’ tent until it sounded like Rhaella was settled before leaving to find her own bed with Snow and Brienne of Tarth serving as her guard.

“That will be all Doreah. I will send for you in the morning,” Daenerys told her most trusted handmaiden when she heard Jon enter their tent. Doreah had assisted her changing from her riding clothes to a simple red silken robe. She decided she would leave her hair braided and call for a warm bath on the morrow.

“Yes, your Grace,” Doreah said with a curtsy before passing Jon to wander off to her own tent that was shared with Vithi and Nivvi. Daenerys liked her handmaidens. Each of them were chosen for their discretion, intelligence, and ability to make for good company.

No matter how much she valued Vithi and Nivvi’s loyal service, part of her still missed her first handmaidens, Irri and Jhiqui. Daenerys missed the nights spent on the Dothraki Sea, when Irri would teach her the Dothraki language and Jhiqui would tell her the proper Dothraki customs. They were her friends and she had not seen them in years, fearing she would never see them again. _I pray they are happy in Vaes Dothrak with strong sons and beautiful daughters._

“What is wrong? You look sad,” Jon asked, kneeling behind her as he stared into her eyes through the looking glass.

“It is nothing. It’s just…I miss Irri and Jhiqui, that is all,” Daenerys admitted, remembering for the first time in years her handmaidens had actually taught her a great deal about ruling. It was their voices and their counsel she heard when she considered rulings that would affect the Dothraki and the lowborn in Essos.

“We will see them again…,” Jon whispered against her ear before leaving a trail of kisses down her neck that ended at her shoulder. “Someday.”

“You did not ask about King’s Landing,” Daenerys stated, watching her king discard his black leather gambeson in the reflection of the looking glass. They had discussed family, hunting, the Kingswood, and all other things, but not the ruling of the Realm.

“Because the Seven Kingdoms were left in better hands while I was gone,” Jon said to her ire. Daenerys was confident in her ability to rule, but she still detested Jon’s stubborn will to think lesser of himself.

“I shall tell Visenya,” Daenerys said in jest as she removed the last of her rings to set carefully within the jewelry box next to the looking glass. When she stood from her chair, she found Jon as naked as his first nameday. They had only been parted five days, but that did not stop her from missing him.

“Allow me to steal Dark Sister from her before you do,” Jon laughed as she climbed onto their bed, ridding herself of the silk robe. Daenerys needed to feel the beat of his heart and the touch of his skin. She was quick to get under the covers and entangle her legs with Jon’s. After a long kiss she did not get to share with him earlier, he continued, “Is there anything I should know?”

“Small matters, nothing of importance,” Daenerys smiled before moving her lips to the scar over his heart. _It is too late to speak of farmers in the Riverlands and two hedge knights fighting outside the Lion Gate._

“Did you notice Daenys and Valarr?” Jon asked, pulling her closer against his side.

“Visenya said they were closer, but I saw nothing until I left the pavilion with Jaehaerys. They did not think anyone was watching, but I saw them kissing behind the tents. Drummer and Skye gave them away, standing guard. Do you think it happened before or after you left? If I am honest, I did think it odd when Daenys said she was going,” Daenerys said, wondering what had changed Valarr’s mind. _Was it Daenys? One of our sons knocking some sense into him? Or was it Valarr alone?_

“After. I noticed Daenys fighting for his attention on the Kingsroad. After the first day’s hunt, I have not seen them apart,” Jon informed her. _I hope it is love. Daenys deserves to be happy and I do not want a son in the Kingsguard. I would give my life for him. He should not risk his life for mine._

“Tell me they are not sharing the same tent,” Daenerys demanded. _I wanted them together, but they should not rush into each other’s bed._

“No, they have not. Those wolves give away where they sleep,” Jon said.

“What about Rhaegar and Arya? Jon and Dany?” she asked. When her husband said nothing, Daenerys looked up and saw the truth on his face. Their children were growing bolder with every moon turn, sneaking away to the other’s bedchamber. She was not surprised to learn this had not changed in the Kingswood.

“Well, we can hardly fault them. We did the same, did we not?” Daenerys noted.

“I see we are late,” Rhaenys made her presence known, walking through the entrance to their tent with Visenya right behind her.

“We were just talking,” Daenerys replied.

“Good,” Rhaenys replied as she started to remove her sleeveless travelling tunic. Visenya was there before the clothing fell to the floor, assisting her sister’s undress. Daenerys’ patience was gone and she could not stop her hands from finding Jon’s cock. When he was hard for her, she threw aside the covers so she could see him while he watched Visenya throw Rhaenys’ smallclothes to the Myrish rug at their feet.

“Come here, Dany,” he said. Her name on his lips still made her wet. It never felt tired or boring with Jon, even after all the years they had been together. She loved him as much as she did the first time they kissed in the Winterfell godswood.

“Jon,” she moaned after he barely bit her bottom lip. His hand was kneading her ass, but she could tell he was inching closer to plunging his fingers into her cunt, reciprocating the pleasure she was giving him.

“I’ve missed you,” Rhaenys declared, settling on Jon’s right side, stealing his lips from hers. Daenerys could not blame her. They both missed him in their bed. On the nights they shared without Jon and Visenya, they were able to please one another. It wasn’t the same, but it was still good.

Daenerys lost her hold on Jon’s cock when Visenya joined them, pushing her shoulder so she rolled off their husband to lay on her back. Her protest was stifled by Visenya straddling her hips and cupping her breasts. Visenya teased her nipples and kneaded her breasts until that was no longer enough. Their lips commenced a battle of passion, trying to prove who loved the other more.

“We missed you,” Visenya whispered between kisses, gasping for air. They were all covered in a sheen of sweat before Jon could begin to even make love to them. “I missed you.”

“I missed you,” Daenerys said as Visenya kissed the crook of her neck and sucked on her pulse.

“You did? Then I am sure you missed this,” Visenya said in her sultry tone with two fingers gracing Daenerys’ nub before plunging into her cunt.

“Kessa. Kessa. Kessa, ñuha jorrāelagon!” Daenerys whimpered, writhing under Visenya’s skilled hands. More nonsensical Valyrian was ready to spill from her mouth, but Visenya silenced her. Daenerys needed to breathe, but in that moment, she needed Visenya more.

When Visenya finally abandoned her lips, Daenerys tilted her head as she laid on the pillows. Jon was there, lapping Rhaenys’ folds while Visenya did the same to hers. And like Rhaenys did to Jon, Daenerys fisted Visenya’s hair. Visenya would never leave her until she was spent, but Daenerys took hold of her hair still.

“Konīr, paktot konīr,” Daenerys thought she ordered as Visenya took her closer to her edge. Daenerys wanted Jon to be the first to make her cum, but she was not so selfish to protest Rhaenys having him between her legs first. They shared their husband and Daenerys had accepted that long ago.

Following Daenerys’ command, Visenya stayed there, using her tongue how she liked. She knew she was close when Visenya used her fingers to circle her clit. It was all beginning to be too overwhelming. All she could do was stare at the tent above her head and grasp whatever it was she could hold onto. In her ecstasy, she had lost her grip on Visenya’s braid and resorted to bunching the silk sheets below in her hands.

“Nuha dārys. Nuha Jon. Nuha Jon!” Rhaenys moaned next to her, loud enough for the Kingsguard outside their tent to hear. _I pray the rest of the camp…Oh gods!_

Daenerys whimpered and screamed Valyrian of her own, all the while finding Rhaenys’ hand beside hers. They both held each other’s hand as Jon and Visenya had their fill, tasting their wet cunts. Stars were forming under her half-hooded eyelids while her limbs lost all their strength and her back arched as the wave of pure pleasure passed through her body.

The aftermath of Visenya’s efforts was sweet. Daenerys laid on their bed with her limbs unmoving and lifeless while her heart felt more alive than ever. The sensation was made all the more pleasant when Visenya kissed her from her wet folds to her thighs and down to her ankles. And when she reached her end, Visenya left another trail of kisses up her legs, stopping at her nub, and then continuing past her navel toward her chest.

“So, did you? Miss this?” Visenya asked when her eyes were finally staring down at Daenerys’.

“Yes,” Daenerys laughed before she pulled Visenya down, claiming her lips again.

“Dany…,” she heard his voice and that was enough. Her folds were wet and her body ached for him to be inside her. Daenerys was sure the ladies at court would roll their eyes and scoff if she told them her true feelings. A few days away from Jon felt like a lifetime of torture, tearing at her heart. _We were always meant for each other, always._

“Jon, my…,” she tried to tell him how much she loved him, but he was too quick. Visenya moved aside so he could capture her lips and bury his fingers inside her braided hair. Her hair would be a mess and the braid ruined for Doreah to fix.

“Gods, you are so beautiful,” Jon said, staring down at her with the grey eyes she fell in love with. Daenerys wanted to find the will to stay awake and stare at the storm clouds she imagined in his eyes, but she was sure they would fall asleep before sunrise.

“Each of you, my beautiful queens,” he continued when Rhaenys and Visenya took their places beside her. Rhaenys’ fingers ghosted her stomach while her lips kissed Daenerys’ shoulder. Visenya’s hand soothed her thigh while their legs became entangled.

“Your Queen has missed you,” Daenerys said, reaching for his cock while never taking her eyes off his. With a subtle stroke of her hand and the gentle teasing of her thumb around the tip of his cock, she guided him toward her entrance. No more words needed speaking. Jon understood and took over the rest.

A gasp escaped Daenerys when Jon’s cock brushed against her clit. She wanted him inside her, but he noticed how vulnerable she was and started teasing her bundle of nerves with the tip of his cock. It felt both cruel and loving, all at once. Daenerys did not know what to say or do. All she could do was writhe underneath his weight and hold back her sobs as best she could, knowing other tents were not far away. _We will fail to remain silent. We always do._

“Jon, please! I am begging you,” Daenerys sobbed in High Valyrian, praying he would listen. Jon always listened and like the thousands of other times she asked something of him, he acquiesced. Not a second passed before his cock was slowly parting her folds, filling her cunt as she so greatly desired.

“Nuha Dāria,” Jon growled as he started to thrust his hips into hers. Daenerys felt like no other wife was loved by her husband as much as Jon loved her. His eyes were locked with hers while his hand cupped her cheek and caressed her skin before resting so lovingly at the side of her neck. Jon’s free hand soon found one of hers as she fought to keep her legs parted.

“Nuha Dārys…Nuha Jon,” Daenerys cried, digging her nails into his strong hand that held hers. The hand on her neck was the hand of a gentle and caring lover. The other was the hand of a warrior and king that would never loosen his iron grip. The gentle strum of her pearl brought another whimper from her lips.

Daenerys never tore her eyes off Jon, but she could not ignore the occasional grind of Visenya’s wet cunt against her hip or the constant teasing from Rhaenys’ fingers upon her breasts. It was almost too much for her when Visenya’s fingers explored her clit and Rhaenys’ tongue flicked her nipples. They had done this and more many nights before, but Daenerys never felt bored with the King and two Queens she shared her life with. She felt sorry for the ladies who spoke truthfully of lords fucking other women and not them, all after several cups of wine.

“Jon, I need you…please,” Daenerys pleaded in their mother tongue, seeking his lips. She thought she was getting her wish until Rhaenys interceded and stole her lips. _I need Jon, not you. Rhae…_

Every voice and instinct inside Daenerys wanted to curse Rhaenys. All those voices and instincts were blown away like a feather in the wind when Rhaenys’ tongue caressed her lower lip. The slow kiss quickly turned into a furious and passionate one. Both queens knew what made the other happy. Daenerys did not realize she had let go of Jon until his hand found hers again, amongst the pillows behind her.

“Rhae…,” Daenerys heard Jon say through tired breaths, still filling her to the hilt. With every thrust of his length against her core, Daenerys drew closer and closer to the edge. _I want him with me when it is time. Just us. Just…_

With a sudden, but gentle push from Visenya, Rhaenys was off her and Jon was falling into her embrace. His thrusts turned from the sure and steady strikes of a husband in control to the rapid, unrelenting thrusts of a man who had not seen his wife in a thousand years. It was just her and Jon. Visenya and Rhaenys helped her, but it was Jon who would fill her and satisfy all she desired.

She loved all of it. Daenerys loved marking Jon’s back with her nails. She loved the fight to keep her legs spread while also pulling him somehow deeper into her cunt with her legs wrapped around the back of his thighs. Most of all, she loved that they were one, together in this moment with nothing to tear them apart.

As her toes began to curl and her back arched again, Daenerys tried and failed to admire Jon’s hungry eyes staring into hers. Her eyes were hooded and the sound of their lovemaking played like a song to her ears. A song so pure and divine, not even the gods could conjure, or so she thought.

_I do not want this to end. It can’t end. I must try. I must…_

And like all the other times, Daenerys came for her husband. Her walls closed in around Jon’s throbbing length which led to her body writhing underneath his weight. Rhaenys and Visenya were there, clutching her hands as if they feared her nails would cut holes in the silk sheets.

The feeling of Jon’s warm seed filling her womb and the uncontrolled, final thrusts of his hips was almost as pleasurable as the orgasm he gave her before. She felt like a conqueror, even if he had outlasted her. She could see it in his eyes and hear it in his breath. If Jon were an unexperienced lover, or worse, a husband that did not care for his wife’s pleasure, she was sure he would have spilt his seed long before.

“Dany…,” Jon whispered in her ear, repeating her name like he always did. They were both completely spent, with little strength left in them. Daenerys took the time to untie the thin leather holding back his raven curls. When his hair came undone, she laughed and kissed him again, savoring the feeling of his weight on top of her.

For some time, they laid in their bed, silently admiring each other while the sweat covering their bodies cooled. It took Visenya’s urging for them to abandon their rest and gather around a small table near the trunks holding their wardrobe. Jon poured them each a glass of water before indulging himself. _Always the King…_

“You know, you still have another Queen who has missed you,” Rhaenys said, seductively pointing a finger into the hard muscles of his chest. After giving Jon a warning look, Rhaenys continued, “A Queen who needs you.”

“And who is this Queen? I do not know her,” Jon said in jest, trying his best to maintain a regal, serious mask.

“A Queen who is not to be tested. A Queen who burns her enemies and cares little for small kings. You are not a small king, are you?” Rhaenys said with a raised eyebrow. Daenerys was not sure they would make it back to their bed when she saw Rhaenys’ fingers encircling Jon’s hardening cock.

“No,” was all he said before Rhaenys was off the ground and her legs wrapped around Jon’s waist. The pitcher of water and the cups surrounding it went crashing to the Myrish rug below. The table was the nearest place for Jon to take Rhaenys and their passion had little patience.

“Jon, please…,” Rhaenys moaned when it was only his fingers touching her slick folds. Daenerys had come to stand beside him, her eyes drinking in the sight of Rhaenys’ cunt. She soon decided she rather liked the sight of Rhaenys’ cunt without the familiar, small thatch of hair. _Nivvi must have attended to her on the road._ “Your Khaleesi commands it.”

“Aye,” Jon growled and took his cock in hand, parting her tight cunt. Jon’s hips were quick and violent, filling Rhaenys to the hilt. Her screams matched his low growls. Rhaenys’ large breasts were a lovely sight, moving in rhythm with the two lovers. Visenya seemed to agree, taking a greedy handful of a breast when she could, standing at Jon’s right.

Rhaenys fought to sit upright at the tables edge, occasionally biting their husband’s inviting, full lips. Her chances to taste his lips only lasted so long before his length slipped from her cunt. Jon’s pace was too quick and uncontrolled. Daenerys and Visenya decided for Rhaenys and pushed her shoulders so she laid atop the table on her back.

With Rhaenys’ legs spread, held by Daenerys and Visenya, Jon had easy access to her open legs. While Daenerys watched again, she painted Rhaenys’ leg with gentle kisses. From the High Valyrian escaping Rhaenys’ mouth, she was unsure if her efforts were even noticed. She continued anyway, doing it for herself and her love for Rhaenys.

“Brother…deeper, you can…harder, yes…,” Rhaenys panted in High Valyrian, caring a little less than Daenerys for who may have heard them. Daenerys could only smile, knowing that was what made Rhaenys who she was. Sometimes Daenerys thought Rhaenys was the truest Khaleesi of the three. She would never make love to Jon in sight of others, but she did not worry if their guards heard them.

A feeling of innocent jealousy passed through Daenerys when Jon gave Rhaenys his seed. She was grateful he found the will to last longer than herself, but part of her wished to make him come undone like Rhaenys had. _I shall best her on the morrow._

“My beautiful Queen…my sweet sister,” Jon said in shaken voice, still recovering from their lovemaking. His hand was roaming across Rhaenys’ thighs, teasing her glistening petals, wandering past her navel, and greedily kneading her breasts. Rhaenys’ skin glowed in the candlelight, covered in a fine sheen of sweat.

The sight reminded Daenerys how different each of them were. Visenya shared her moonlight hair, amethyst eyes, and fair skin. Their faces even shared many of the same features, often leading outsiders to mistake them for sisters when they were children. But Visenya did have some of Lyanna Stark in her face. And like Lyanna, Visenya was taller than her and did not share her curves.

Rhaenys was unlike either of them, with her darker violet eyes and dark brown hair. Her skin was not as dark as most Dornish, but enough to see her mother was not a Targaryen. She also stood taller than them all, but still short enough to lie her head against their husband’s chest.

It was during their respite, when they were ready to retire for the night, Daenerys decided she wanted more. The thought had blossomed like a flower in spring and it was etched in her mind, incapable of disappearing into the night. _I still need more of him._

“Jon…,” she nearly whispered after finishing her glass of water. Jon was on one knee behind her, kissing and kneading her cheeks. She loved how he found a way to worship every inch of her body. Rhaenys and Visenya were already making their way to the bed, not thinking of what Daenerys had planned. “Take me…there.”

“Here?” he asked after his tongue parted her cheeks and licked her rosebud. _Yes, there._ The feeling was thrilling, knowing her love and her king was willing to do what so many lords did not. Daenerys also found great pleasure when he fucked her there. They did so sparingly, but Daenerys thought four moons too long. “Here?”

“Yes, there,” she confirmed, lifting her ass to give him that little bit more access.

“I thought you said we were done,” Visenya complained, taking notice of Jon’s efforts when a whimper escaped her lips.

“I did,” Daenerys confessed after a shudder passed through her body and Jon tongue abandoned her rosebud. With a soft smack on a cheek, Jon led her to their bed. Again, he was hard and ready to fill her.

Once she had crawled onto the bed, Daenerys was prone and ready for him. She knew he would come, but she swayed her hips from side to side to remind him what she could give him. Mischievous looks were shared with Rhaenys and Visenya as Jon’s had felt her cheeks before ghosting up her spine to seize hold of her braid. She was ready to have him, but he surprised her, burying his cock in her cunt.

The initial shock did not last, for she understood what he was doing. Every slow collision of Jon’s hips into hers coated his length with her juices. By the time Visenya was coaxed out of her slumber and spreading her legs for Daenerys, Jon’s cock was absent from her folds and beginning to tease her rosebud.

“Dany, you…you,” Jon’s voice waivered the deeper he went, filling her from behind. It hurt at first, but Jon was slow and careful, understanding what he needed to do. Daenerys wanted to let out a gentle, welcome sob of her own, but her tongue was occupied with Visenya’s folds.

Visenya’s sweet and familiar taste was almost enough for Daenerys. It was her fellow queen’s soft whimpers and drawn out sobs that filled the tent. It sounded beautiful, like Rhaenys’ songs. Daenerys wanted to continue to pull away at those strings that pulled Visenya apart.

“Oh! Jon, fuck,” Daenerys cried the moment he abandoned the slow, gentle thrusts. The collision of his hips into her ass overwhelmed Visenya’s pleasurable moans.

Try as she did, Daenerys lost her ability to focus on Visenya’s wet folds. The feeling of his pillar inside her rosebud and his stones repeatedly hitting her cunt consumed her. All she could do was fist the sheets below and bit on her bottom lip to fight off her screams of pleasure.

“Dany, you are so perfect. You….,” Jon panted, falling in and out of their mother tongue with his curses and loving remarks. When his words began to fail and his breaths hurried, Daenerys decided he must be close. _No, this will not be it._

“Jon, wait,” Daenerys told him. A glance over her shoulder made her realize she worried him. Jon pulled out before she could reassure him everything was fine. Turning around, she laid a hand on his chest, “No, I just wanted…you were close and…let me.”

Under her guidance, Jon laid on his back in the middle of their bed. His cock was still long and hard, standing at attention for her to seize it. Every inch of her body ached for him, but Daenerys fought the compulsion, knowing he would finish all too soon if she mounted him immediately. Instead, she turned to Rhaenys and Visenya, silently telling them what to do.

The first to pounce on their husband was Visenya. She stood above Jon, contemplating how she would ride his face. Daenerys guessed she wanted to watch Jon fuck her when she mounted him, facing herself and Rhaenys. When Visenya started to roll her hips and whisper sweet nothings, Daenerys decided she could wait no more.

Once she was standing over her husband, Daenerys eased her way onto his length. Still coated in her wetness, his cock slid in as easily as she could hope for. In truth, it was not easy at all, but that was how she preferred it. The slow bounce of her ass onto his hips was followed by Rhaenys’ tongue on his balls.

Every collision of her skin against his felt like a warhammer hitting Valyrian steel armor. His cock was hitting where it should not, but Daenerys thought that wrong considering how incredible it felt to her. Between her moans, the cries of his name, and her head falling back in ecstasy, she had little chance of taking in Rhaenys’ beauty.

Because she was so tight and Jon’s cock was so big for her, she could feel every pulse and every twitch. She minded every sensation, almost committing every feeling to memory, like a girl remembering the verses of a song at court. That concentration and devotion to Jon’s release was broken the moment she felt a tongue lapping at her folds.

The flicks hitting her clit and petals were inconsistent. Rhaenys did her best, but there was no way for her to truly keep pace with Daenerys’ cunt while she still rode Jon.

“Rhaenys! Oh gods! Fuck! Come here. Come…,” Daenerys hissed, becoming tired of Rhaenys’ on and off torments. Rhaenys graced her with a delightful smirk and a soft pinch of her nipple. Her fellow queen’s fingers were now circling her pearl, never leaving her cunt without pleasure. Infrequently, Rhaenys gifted her with her lips or hands caring for her breasts.

Overwhelmed by Jon’s length filling her ass and Rhaenys’ fingers playing her clit like a harp, Daenerys rode Jon without abandon. Her King and Queen were making her cum and she did not care if Jon could not last another minute. A muted growl from behind told her he was close.

There was no real sense of time, but it did not seem long after Daenerys quickened her pace that she felt Jon’s throbbing cock ready to explode. Luck and Rhaenys’ skill were her allies, making her cum with her husband. Her final bounces were fast and violent, met by Jon’s own final thrusts. He had laid there and allowed her to ride him, but she had fucked him too well. His body demanded to meet her halfway.

“Jon, my love…yes, there. Right there!” Daenerys screamed in High Valyrian louder than she wished. Their last three thrusts were erratic, but met in unison. She savored the feeling of his burning seed inside her.

“Dany,” was all he said, gasping for the air he was surely deprived of when Visenya sat on his face. Daenerys had fallen back into his embrace, her back against his chest. His length no longer filled her, but the pleasure was replaced by his kiss. She could taste Visenya on his lips with her head tilted to the side so they could stay as they were.

“I love you,” he whispered against her ear when their kiss was finished.

“I love you,” she echoed, lying atop him with one of his arms wrapped around her breasts and the other around her center. Daenerys never felt more loved or protected than times like this, when she was held in his arms.

Neither of them said anything for the rest of the night. Daenerys eventually turned over to rest her face against Jon’s chest, listening to the sound of his beating heart. Rhaenys and Visenya clung to their warmth and nuzzled their heads onto Jon’s shoulders. Too exhausted for more sex, each of them rested their eyes, welcoming the much-needed sleep.

**Princess Arianne Martell**

Miles away, Arianne could still see the white stone walls and the towers of Highgarden as she walked the orchards with Allyria Tyrell. They were surrounded by trees filled with peaches and fireplums. Everywhere she looked, she saw green and gold and red and orange and all the other colors that were absent in much of Dorne.

The sparse deserts, sandy beaches, red mountains, and hidden oases of Dorne were her home, but she could not deny the Reach was an easy place to live. Arianne envied her friend. Allyria could raise her children in a castle surrounded by tasteful orchards, forests rich with game, fields filled with flowers and crop, and a river to swim. The Water Gardens were the best Arianne could offer her children. That and the Sunset Sea.

“I do not think they will ever want to leave,” Arianne said, walking behind the children as they plucked peaches from low hanging limbs and fallen fireplums off the ground.

Arianne’s only son and heir to Starfall, Jon Dayne, quickly took to Arthur Tyrell. He was still an impressionable boy of nine years and looked up to the heir to Highgarden, only three years older than himself. It made her happy to see them becoming friends in their short time at Highgarden. Rodrik Tyrell also took a liking to Jon, always asking to join them in the practice yard with their wooden swords.

“I’m not so sure. They are Dornish,” Allyria said, picking the best fireplum she could find from the nearest tree. Allyria was still a great Dornish beauty, unaffected by the births of her four children. Her tanned skin, smooth onyx hair, and ethereal violet eyes were foreign to the Reach, but something about Allyria made her the perfect Lady of Highgarden. _Her purple dress certainly compliments her eyes._ “The Reach is not Dorne.”

“You are Dornish,” Arianne noted.

“Aye, but I was raised in the Crownlands and my father was a Northman. Dorne is not my home,” Allyria reminded her. “Two years at Sunspear and Starfall do not make me a Dornishwoman.”

“Nymella,” Arianne nodded toward her eldest daughter who ran through the trees with Elys and Serena. All three girls were chasing after the white-grey direwolf, Winter. “She says she wants to fly a dragon when we reach King’s Landing. It seems Princess Nymeria made her a promise in a letter six moons ago.”

“Princess Arya promised Elys the same,” Allyria shook her head, tossing aside her finished fireplum. Finally finding a peach she liked, Arianne plucked the fruit from the tree to her left. Its orange was so dark, it nearly matched the orange-red silk of her Dornish dress that accentuated her hips and breasts.

“Do you think Rhaenys put them up to it? To torment us?” Arianne asked, imagining her cousin’s delight. Dragons were all she heard about on the road from Sunspear to Highgarden. Moonlight, Princess Nymeria’s purple-scaled dragon, was Nymella’s favorite for obvious reasons.

“Visenya, more likely,” Allyria decided, knowing Visenya Targaryen better than herself.

“You miss them,” Arianne said, seeing the sadness in Allyria’s eyes.

“I do. They were my sisters. Jon was my brother,” Allyria answered, unintentionally reminding Arianne all her brothers were gone, killed with their father by the Sand Snakes. The hurt still lingered in her heart how she had last parted with her father and brothers. She sailed from Dorne, plotting to overthrow her father and ensure her brothers did not steal her claim. But she did not want them dead.

_I wish they were still here. Father could tell me the histories of Dorne and teach me how to rule. Trystane could be wed to some empty-headed girl from Yronwood or Ghost Hill. Quentyn could be a father with a family of his own. No, that is an impossible dream, even if they lived._

“Arianne? Ari? Are you alright?” Allyria asked with a caring hand placed on Arianne’s arm.

“Yes…yes, I am fine,” Arianne did not say it. She did not wish to ruin such a beautiful day, mourning her murdered father. It was something they both shared, but did not once speak of in her time at Highgarden.

“The Queen of Thorns said something of trouble on the Roseroad,” Arianne said, hoping to discuss something else. She was sure Olenna Tyrell did not like her, but Arianne wondered if the lady liked anyone not named Tyrell.

“Another septon preaching against House Targaryen in a town sixty miles from here. You will see it when we ride for King’s Landing. These septons, they are all rather dull. This one was different. He had a talent for stories and stirring the smallfolk’s suspicions. They are now sending their most persuasive septons from Oldtown. Willas sent Ser Myles Flowers and twenty men to deal with him,” Allyria said.

“They took his head?” Arianne asked, interested to learn how Lord Willas Tyrell would deal with the servants of the Most Devout.

“No. Bruised and beaten, perhaps, and sent back to Oldtown,” Allyria said as they both turned at a fireplum tree, trying their best to keep their children in sight. Arianne noticed the Martell and Tyrell household guards struggling to maintain their distance and still keep their eyes on the children running amongst the trees.

“These fanatics are too bold. Three moons past, one was fool enough to tell the smallfolk of Blackmont, Rhaenys and her children were abominations who should be murdered in their sleep. Lady Larra had his head on a spike an hour later,” Arianne told Allyria with a grin, wishing she were there to see it. _Dorne will not stand for the Faith’s treachery._ “A fortnight later, two dozen Faith Militant arrived, demanding Lady Larra meet the justice of the Seven. They were put to the sword and their heads were placed next to their septon.”

“Is it true Lord Dagos buried thirty of them in the mountains?” Allyria asked.

“A tale he does not wish told, but told it is nonetheless,” Arianne mused, wondering how Allyria learned of the massacre outside Kingsgrave. Dagos Manwoody killed the Faith Militant when they first set foot on his lands and kept it a secret. The lord sent a rider to Sunspear, telling her of the threat from the Faith and asking that the incident remain a secret. _How did she hear of it? A spy in Kingsgrave or spies in Oldtown?_

Arianne did not envy House Tyrell’s position. Most of Dorne worshipped the Seven, but Arianne’s people were far more loyal to House Martell and House Targaryen, through Rhaenys. The smallfolk and some of the lords of the Reach were far more devout, holding more allegiance to the Starry Sept than the Iron Throne. Arianne and her bannerman could kill as many septons and militants who spoke against House Targaryen as they liked. Willas and Allyria needed to tread more carefully and they did.

“Leyton Hightower is behind it all, is he not?” Arianne dared to ask, knowing the Lord of the Hightower was Willas Tyrell’s grandfather. _Or he is allowing it to happen at the very least._

“That…and more,” Allyria said no more when their children came forth with apples, plums, peaches, and pears in hand. _What else have they been plotting in Oldtown?_

“What if they do not like it?” Nymella asked in a panicked tone. They were leaving Highgarden on the morrow and Arianne had found her eldest daughter rummaging through her wardrobe trunks that had been packed away by the handmaidens.

“They will love it,” Arianne calmed her daughter, taking the yellow dress from Nymella’s hands. There was still worry in the little princess’s brown eyes. _Where is this coming from?_

In Sunspear, Nymella was a confident princess of House Martell who made friends with the highborn daughters of noble lords. She even had a way of charming the lowborn girls who would swim in the Water Gardens. Targaryen princesses were not the same, but Arianne thought Nymella always thought of them as cousins and cousins only. Instead, her daughter was eager to impress them and nervous about making a fool of herself.

“They will laugh at these,” Nymella said, examining one of her favorite sunset orange dresses. “Can father send for my dresses in Sunspear? Can he? They are far better. They are. Yes, they are much more beautiful…”

“We are not sending a raven home to call for your dresses,” Arianne warned Nymella, stealing the orange dress from her daughter to carefully place it within the trunk.

“But Mother…,” Nymella pled with her big, brown eyes. The sight reminded Arianne of herself when she would get what she wanted from her father, Prince Doran Martell.

“No,” Arianne refused.

“Mayhaps the dressmakers here can sew dresses for me. Elys and Serena have wonderful dresses. Aunt Ashara said they are similar to the dresses worn at court. She said all the girls in the Crownlands wore dresses like that,” Nymella said, desperate to solve the crisis she had conjured inside her head.

Arianne pulled her daughter away from her wardrobe and to the bed inside the bedchamber. Each of her children had their own guest chambers at Highgarden. And each of their rooms provided wonderous views of the surrounding lands. From the windows inside her daughter’s bedchamber, she could see hills covered in orchards and fields as green as any she had ever laid eyes on.

“You want the dressmakers to make new dresses in a night? Nymella, do you see your sister worrying? You are a princess of Dorne, not some lady from the Crownlands. You think dresses from the Crownlands or Reach will impress your cousins? No,” Arianne told her girl, brushing away a strand of Nymella’s black hair from her face.

“I just want them to like me,” Nymella confessed.

“They will, sweetling, they will. Besides, you worry for nothing. Your Aunt Rhaenys always wore Dornish dresses when we were little girls. I am sure Viserra and Ashara wear dresses just like yours. And from what I hear, little Allyria prefers riding breeches to skirts,” Arianne said, pausing to see if Nymella actually believed her. “Do you like Highgarden?”

“I love it. Can Elys and Serena come with us to Sunspear after the tourney? Can they? Please,” Nymella begged. There was no hiding the bonds of friendship she had formed with the Tyrell girls. “Arthur and Rodrik can come too.”

“I thought you and Mara said the boys were annoying,” Arianne laughed after hearing the displeasure in Nymella’s voice when it came to Arthur and Rodrik Tyrell. The two boys had befriended her own son the first day they arrived in Highgarden and because they liked Jon, they earned Nymella’s ire.

“Nymella! Nymella!” Arianne heard before Elys stumbled into the room with Serena and Mara behind her. “Are you coming?”

“Go on,” she encouraged Nymella to join her sisters and cousins. Her eldest graced her with a smile, soon forgetting her troubles before running out of the room to visit the gardens and godswood one last time.

After the children were gone and their giggling voices could no longer be heard outside the guest chambers, Arianne abandoned her daughter’s bed. Arianne did not cross paths with anyone from Nymella’s chambers to her own. She expected she would have to go in search of Allyria in the Great Hall or her son in the training yard. To her relief, Edric was standing on the small balcony outside their chambers.

“I did not think to see you until supper,” Arianne made her presence known, snaking her arms around his center as he greeted her with a searing kiss.

“We decided they should have their rest before the journey,” Edric said after their lips were parted, looking down at her with his dark violet eyes. It was the way he stared at her that made Arianne never seek out another lover. Edric was a true knight, an honorable man, and a wise lord. He loved her and she loved him.

“Did Jon do well?” Arianne inquired, praying their son would grow strong and skilled with a sword like his father. _He looks just like him._

“He is getting better, I think. He is brave. That is what matters at his age,” Edric replied. _Let him be brave now, while he can. He will need more than courage when he is of age._

“The Tarlys will be joining us on the journey to King’s Landing,” Arianne informed her husband. The fat Lord Samwell Tarly arrived at the main gate while Arianne walked with Allyria. He came with his wildling wife and his three children. Arianne always thought it odd the Lord of Horn Hill was the best of friends with the King. They were nothing alike from what she could see.

“I know. Willas and I spoke with Sam before I returned from the yard,” Edric said before lifting her off the ground with his strong hands on her ass. When Edric found their bed, he fell back with herself on top. She waited for him to pull on her dress and reveal a breast.

Edric never pulled on her dress as she so wished. Instead, he laid beneath her weight and took in all her beauty in silence. They always did this when it was just the two of them and their duty to Dorne or their children did not require them elsewhere.

“We still must discuss this coming conflict with the Faith,” Edric broached the subject they had long delayed. They had set out from Sunspear, curious to know where House Tyrell stood. Arianne trusted Allyria like she was the sister she never had, but she was still skeptical of Willas Tyrell. “Willas has called for his mother’s presence at the tourney.”

“He thinks there is a chance of war,” Arianne mused, understanding why Edric mentioned such a trivial matter. It was not trivial at all. Leyton Hightower had leverage over Willas with Lady Alerie residing at the Hightower. That leverage was gone with his mother no longer in Oldtown. _Lord Leyton would not likely harm his own daughter, but it seems Willas is not taking that chance. Is he more cruel and cunning than I thought?_

“Aye. If it comes to that, our bannermen will be the first to fight it. Jon will want our men from Starfall, High Hermitage, and Blackmont for the siege of Oldtown,” Edric said, calmer than she expected.

“Should we send ravens? Or a rider?” Arianne asked, wondering if it was better Houses Dayne and Blackmont were prepared now instead of several moons from now.

“If we gather a host, Leyton Hightower and the Most Devout will hear of it. It is your decision, but I think we should wait. My father will stay at Starfall while we are away. If the war comes sooner than later, we can send a raven and he will have a small host gathered that can be outside the walls of Oldtown in a fortnight,” Edric counseled her. When it came to matters of war, she depended on his experience and wisdom more than her own.

“Do you think they will try something at this tourney?” Arianne asked. A part of her wished for the Hightowers and the Faith to overreach. She never much liked the Hightowers she had met and she liked devout followers of the Faith even less. _Seeing their end would taste as sweet as Lord Yronwood’s wines._

“Before, I would have said no. If what Allyria says is true, attacking the Arbor with longships…,” Edric paused as they both considered the pieces on the cyvasse board. _That was risky and foolish. If there is proof, Oldtown’s new war galleys will not be enough to hold off the Redwyne fleet._ “He cannot hope to win a war with the half the Reach and the rest of the Seven Kingdoms.”

“Because he does not mean to. He will betray the Starry Sept when he has what he wants,” Arianne stated after considering what the Hightowers sought.

“And what does he want?” Edric asked.

“What every lord in the Seven Kingdoms wants…his grandchildren wed to a dragonrider,” Arianne answered. _The septons will become louder and their sermons will grow bolder. They will spread and the Militant with them. These Ironborn raids, real or not, will increase. He will offer his influence and a return to the peace, for a prince or a princess or both._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the Arianne POV. I thought it would be better than it was. This chapter is likely the last w/ a Jon/Dany/Senya/Rhae scene. Daenys did more than she needed to, but she is young, desperate, and in love. There will be one or two more chapters before everyone starts to arrive in KL for the tourney.
> 
> As always, please leave any questions, comments, etc. below. I have noticed not as many readers like this fic as The Second Targaryen Dynasty, so I welcome any criticism that can help improve the story.


	8. Training & Preparations

**King Jon Targaryen**

It was going to rain soon and hard. Jon could see the first signs of storm clouds approaching, painting the southwestern sky in a dark grey, that stood in stark contrast to the blue sky above the tourney grounds. The soft echoes of thunder in the distance spurred on Aegon to abandon his waterskin and return to the stableboys caring for his black destrier.

Aegon was the lone participant in the day’s list, a tourney of one. Jon watched his son don a black helm marked with dragon wings and scarlet streamers. The armor was also black with the three-headed dragon of their House on his breastplate, decorated with rubies. He had yet to see his son ride, but Aegon’s purposeful look of determination filled him with pride.

“Prince Aegon rides well, your Grace. He has been at it all day,” Ser Franklyn Mallery, a captain of their household guard, said as Aegon grabbed a lance from one of the boys. The Master of Games had offered Jon the royal box, but Jon declined, preferring to stand before it with a view from the ground.

“Has he jousted with another rider?” Jon asked, carefully paying attention to his son’s form as Aegon rode his destrier along the tilt, toward the practice dummy. Aegon struck his foe true, sending bits of straw into the air after his pass. _He readies to hit his mark too soon._

“Damon Yronwood and Lord Fowler’s grandsons,” Nymeria answered for the knight with some glee as she brushed past Ser Arthur Dayne and Ser Simon Sunglass. Franklyn bowed his head and took his leave to join his men standing guard at one of the entrances to the tilt yard.

“Are they good?” Jon asked, realizing he knew little of the competitors in the coming tourney. In truth, he could only name the champions of the tourneys he has seen with his own eyes since he was crowned king. Unlike his youth, he had little time or interest to learn about the knights and lords entering the lists.

“Not as good as Aegon,” Nymeria replied with a smirk, sounding like a girl in love. Jon could see his daughter was happy, making him smile. “But do not tell him I said that. He is already confident enough. He must be ready for Ser Harys. Corlys said he is the greatest tourney knight in generations.”

“He rode well at Lannisport,” Jon remembered, not telling his daughter the knight rode without flaw. From across the yard, he could see Valarr offering Aegon some advice with Corlys Velaryon.

“It doesn’t matter. I told Corlys that was a lie. Ser Harys isn’t the greatest,” Nymeria replied.

“If not Ser Harys, then who?” Jon questioned who his daughter had in mind.

“You,” Nymeria surprised him. Jon turned his eyes from Aegon to see his daughter did not speak in jest. There was a seriousness in the dark violet eyes she inherited from her mother. When he laughed, Nymeria continued, “What? Why do you laugh? Father, I am serious. All the old lords and knights say it is true…the ones that saw you unhorse Uncle Aegon and crown Mother the Queen of Love and Beauty.”

“Your old lords and knights are liars, my sweet daughter,” Jon said, pulling his daughter to his side with his arm around her shoulders. “I won one tourney. They exaggerate my skill. The greatest rider I have seen at tourney is…”

Jon’s smile faded when he saw Aegon make another pass at another dummy. This time, his son struck true without giving away his mark until the final moment. It wasn’t by mistake. Everything Aegon did in the saddle was practiced and with purpose. The scene returned Jon to his days as a prince, helping his brother practice for tourney. Aegon jousted with the same strength, speed, and grace as his namesake.

“Father? Father?” Nymeria attempted to pull Jon from his quiet sadness. “What is wrong?”

It still hurt, knowing he would never see his brother again. Jon never spoke of it, but the loss still weighed heavy on his heart. Not a day passed when he did not think of the last time he saw his brother at Winterfell and his promise to bring Jon home from Essos. _He should still be here. Egg and Father should still be here._

“It is nothing,” Jon lied, feigning a smile for Nymeria.

“So, who was it, the greatest rider you have seen at tourney?” his daughter persisted.

“My brother,” Jon said, trying to hide the sadness in his voice.

“He reminds you of Uncle Aegon,” Nymeria noted as Aegon made another pass along the tilt.

“Aye,” Jon admitted. It wasn’t just Aegon’s skill in the joust or his features that reminded Jon of his departed brother. Aegon was well-liked and easily won friends at court, like his namesake.

“Ser Barristan said Grandfather was just as skilled a rider. He said Grandfather bested the greatest knights in the Seven Kingdoms at Harrenhal. Did you ever see him joust?” Nymeria asked.

“No, I never saw him joust. I only heard stories…from your grandmothers, Arthur, Oswell…,” Jon said as he caught sight of Daenys bringing Valarr a waterskin as if he were the one training. “I wish they were still here, your grandfather and uncle. They would have loved you. They would be proud of the princes and princesses you and your brothers and sisters have become.”

“Part of me wishes I had known them. I know how much Grandmother Lyanna and Grandmother Elia miss them. I know you and Mothers still miss them, but then…,” Nymeria paused to consider her next words. It was apparent she was unsure if she should say more. “Then I remember if Uncle Aegon were here, I would not. Neither would Aegon, Valarr, Daenys, and our brothers and sisters. It’s terrible, I know.”

“No, it’s not,” Jon said, squeezing Nymeria’s shoulder while he placed a kiss on her temple. “I struggle with similar feelings. If Egg were still here, I would not have your mother. I would not have you or your siblings. I could not imagine a life without your mother or you.”

“Some say Uncle Aegon is our true father,” Nymeria said with an anger in her voice that he could never recall hearing before. Before he could tell her there was no truth to such claims, she continued, “I know it isn’t true. You are my father.”

“I am sorry you have to hear such filth. Do not listen to those fools. There were some who hated my mother and father being wed. They called me and Visenya bastards. Sometimes, I am reminded I cannot change this shit world, even for my own daughter,” Jon fumed, earning a giggle from Nymeria. “What is it? What did I say?”

“Nothing, it’s just…I cannot remember the last time I heard you curse,” Nymeria said, leaning her head against his shoulder. “And do not worry about me, Father. I stopped caring what others said long ago.”

Jon prayed Nymeria was telling the truth. He did not want her to be called bastard by some and suffer in silence. _She mustn’t let the words or opinions of lords and ladies weigh on her. She is to rule Fyrestone and build a family of her own._

“Valarr and Daenys…” Jon began, seeing Daenys pull Valarr away to steal a kiss when she thought no one was watching. Even if the prince and princess were able to hide behind the wooden tourney stands, the direwolves trailing behind them were sure to give them away. “What changed? I have not heard your brother speak of joining the Kingsguard since the hunt.”

“Daenys told him she loved him and that he needed to make a choice,” Nymeria said, making it all seem so simple. Jon was sure there was more to tell, but he decided not to press his daughter for more truths. “I pity him. He hates dancing and Daenys is likely to make him dance at every feast for the next two moons.”

“If your brother truly loves her, then he will do anything for her, no matter how much it pains him,” Jon replied as Valarr rushed to Aegon’s side to hand him another lance. Jon was amused to see Daenys’ furious eyes directed toward Aegon for stealing Valarr’s attention.

“I never cared for the feasts and the politics that come with the King’s Tourney, but I hope you enjoy this time,” Jon said, knowing Nymeria fared better at court than Arya or Dany. Both of his daughters could present themselves as well as any princess at court, but they did not take to their duties as easily as Nymeria.

Since their first royal progress, Nymeria was the first to make friends with the daughters of the noble Houses of the Realm. She was adored by all who crossed paths with her and the same could be said at court in King’s Landing. Like her mother, Jon had seen Nymeria win the friendship of girls with their shared love of song, dance, and other ladylike interests.

“I look forward to seeing Aegon and Dany compete, but I could do without a few ladies visiting King’s Landing,” Nymeria mused while Aegon climbed out of his saddle with Valarr taking the lance from his grasp. In a near-whisper, Nymeria continued, “Especially Meredyth Hightower. I cannot stand her presence. And after what her family has done, what they plan to do.”

“I do not want you worrying about that. Leave that to your mothers and I. I just want you to enjoy this tourney and be careful when it comes to the Hightowers, should you cross paths,” Jon whispered so no one but Nymeria could hear.

“My Queen of Love and Beauty!” Aegon declared as he marched in their direction. Again, Jon was reminded of Aegon’s self-confidence and potential arrogance. Nymeria escaped Jon’s grasp to meet her brother’s approach and capture his lips.

“First, you must win the tourney,” Nymeria cautioned Aegon before sounds of thunder echoed in the distance.

“A storm is coming. We should return,” Jon said, motioning for Arthur Dayne and Simon Sunglass to ready their departure from the tourney grounds. “You rode well, my son, but there are still a few techniques you can improve upon. We will go over them on the way back.”

Before retiring for the night, Jon climbed the spiraling stairs of the Tower of the Hand to seek out Lord Davos Seaworth and hear his counsel. Ser Arthur Dayne remained his shadow as they waited outside the office of the Hand. The tower was silent, with a half-dozen Seaworth guards standing at their posts while the storm raged outside the castle walls.

When Davos’ squire returned, the son of House Selmy led them to the office Davos spent most of his time when he wasn’t attending Small Council meetings or standing in the Throne Room to hear petitioners. The room was lit by candlelight and the occasional flash of lightning from the open windows. From what he could tell, his Lord Hand had been reading through dozens of raven scrolls after the supper in one of the Red Keep’s many small halls.

“Your Grace, you should have sent for me. A king should not be seeking out his hand,” Davos said, already standing behind his large desk, made of dark wood and covered in parchment.

Jon said nothing, only half listening to Davos as he took one of the open seats before the desk. Arthur Dayne remained standing by the door as Davos returned to his seat behind the desk. The Onion Knight continued, “Something troubles you. Is it the news from Bandallon?”

“These raids are becoming too frequent, but no,” Jon answered. Lord Blackbar reported another Ironborn raid, this time striking a fishing village on his lands. This was the tenth raid along the western shores and Jon was beginning to suspect the reavers and rapers to be true men of the Iron Islands and not bandits paid by Leyton Hightower.

“Then what is it that demands my King climb up all those stairs to speak with an old man?” Davos asked.

“House Tyrell…Do you think we can trust them?” Jon said the words, no matter how bitter they tasted in his mouth. He trusted Allyria, knowing she would never betray them. Lord Willas and Ser Garlan had always served him well and fought beside him on the battlefield, but they were also the grandsons of Leyton Hightower.

“Ser Garlan is a knight of the Kingsguard,” Davos started. _He wouldn’t be the first to break his vows._ “And Lord Willas, he is wed to Lady Allyria. He has always been loyal to House Targaryen. He has sent us information from his own spies in Oldtown, has he not?” _The Tyrells did name Renly King. That was a betrayal I will not forget._

“That is why I come to you now, in the middle of night without an entire council,” Jon replied, careful not to speak too loudly for the ears outside the door to hear.

“How long has this been weighing on you?” Davos asked.

“Since I returned from the Kingswood. The pieces on the board have been pushed too far. This conflict will have a bloody end and I do not mean for it to end with Targaryen blood,” Jon swore, promising himself he would never allow what happened to his father and brother to happen again.

“And you worry which side Willas Tyrell will stand on when the time comes. I cannot imagine it will be easy for him, should it come to fighting against his grandfather. You do not suspect…?” Davos asked.

“No. No, Highgarden has nothing to do with this. Allyria would not have it and my Uncle Benjen or Lady Ashara would send a raven if they suspected anything,” Jon said, trusting his kin would not allow such a plot to unfold right under their noses.

“My King, as I see it, you can trust Lord Willas. He fought beside you across the Narrow Sea and pledged the Reach to your cause. It is true, many brave and honorable lords have betrayed their vows. But Willas is smart. The Hightowers are his kin, but he is the Lord of Highgarden. House Tyrell has more to lose in this conflict than they have to gain. And if he were to go along with Leyton’s plot, he would be ceding power to his bannerman. Either the Hightowers want to take the Iron Throne or wed their children to your House. Neither outcome benefits House Tyrell,” Davos said what Jon had already contemplated but needed to hear from another.

“And as for Garlan, I would not worry. That lad fought beside you against White Walkers. The lesser Tyrells should not concern you, but I think we should keep a careful eye on Lady Olenna. That one is a prickly ally,” Davos continued.

“Aye, Arthur said the same,” Jon said, turning in his seat to look at his Kingsguard. A feeling of relief washed over Jon, hearing his Hand vouch for Ser Garlan Tyrell. Jon felt too close to the knight, as did his queens. They needed a trusted advisor’s opinion. “I would never think to trust the Queen of Thorns, but she is a Redwyne. Unless there is something I am failing to see, I doubt she would help House Hightower attain more power. For Lady Olenna’s sake, I pray she learned from the failed betrothal to Renly.”

“No one has ever said she is stupid, but she can be too clever, I suppose,” Davos paused so they could both consider how the coming months would unfold. Breaking the silence, Davos asked, “How do you think Leyton Hightower will play this game?”

“Things will only get worse in the Reach. There will be more raids along the Sunset Sea. You are the sailor, not I, but I suspect our ships will be too late. And how can they truly defend an entire coast? With these raids, fear amongst the smallfolk will grow, as will their support of the Faith. The Seven reached Westeros long before my House and you know how they are in the South. The Faith is desperate and so are their followers. They see their influence waning to nothing and Leyton Hightower will use that,” Jon said, trying to guess where the Faith Militant would strike first.

“Things have been set in motion that cannot be undone. Even if they wanted to hold them back, the Most Devout cannot control the Faith Militant for long. They have steel in their hands. The peace will not remain,” Jon said.

“We could strike first,” Davos suggested even though it pained him. Jon could see it in his old eyes. His Hand was rarely the voice of aggression. “End this nonsense now, before it spreads and infects the rest of the Realm.”

“I do not like it, but we will wait. I will not forget how many of my people worship the Seven. No, I will let the Most Devout and the Faith Militant paint themselves as the aggressors. Our victory would be swift if we were to strike now, but I fear it would only stoke the flames of dissent for years to come. I want Leyton Hightower to arrive for the tourney, thinking he will triumph. And I want more time to consider his moves,” Jon informed his Hand, considering every strength and weakness of House Targaryen, their allies, and their foes.

They had first suspected the Hightowers were encouraging the betrayal of the magisters in Tyrosh and Myr, but now he wasn’t so sure. It seemed a step too far, too risky with little to gain. Jon expected Lord Leyton to offer his assistance to root out the dissenting Essosi magisters and right the governance of the cities with his ties through trade. The Ironborn attacks changed all that.

It was obvious the attacks on the Westerlands and Reach served two purposes. The septons could sway the smallfolk to their side, blaming the Targaryens for ordering Yara Greyjoy to attack the western shores. Unrest and potential for rebellion would allow the Lord of the Hightower to make his bargain or worse, make war. With his newly built fleet anchored at Oldtown, he could promise the defeat of the Iron Fleet and in so doing, establish House Hightower as the most powerful House on the Sunset Sea.

“Will his price for peace be a prince or princess?” Davos asked.

“He is bold and foolish enough to enact this plot. Why not both?” Jon said, masking his own rage. The thought of his children being used as pawns in the game of thrones felt like a knife twisting in his gut. _I will not allow it. They will have a choice, as I did._

“Prince Rhaegar then, and one of the princesses,” Davos stated the obvious. Lord Hightower was greedy and he would ask for a Crown Prince to wed a great granddaughter. “Do you still plan to hear him out?”

“I do,” Jon confirmed, aiming to let the old lord hang himself with his own words. Varys had already gathered enough information to put the Hightowers and Most Devout on trial, but Jon wanted more to appease the lords of the Seven Kingdoms and the worshippers of the Seven. _Perhaps Varys’ little birds will hear even more during the tourney._

“He is sure to approach some of the Small Council. I do not think he will look for a turncloak, but you can be certain he will try to pry hints of weakness from an advisor,” Davos followed.

“And we will give it to him. Lord Celtigar will tell him how concerned we are and that we fear a rebellion,” Jon said though he had yet to inform his Master of Coin of the role he had to play.

“No one sees Masters of Coin trustworthy,” Davos laughed, seeing Jon’s reason. Most of the Small Council was filled with loyal allies tied to House Targaryen by blood or marriage. Jon knew a foe would not trust loose lips from Davos or Gendry Baratheon, but they may believe a Master of Coin. Many lords thought lowly of the office and Lord Ardrian Celtigar was tied to House Targaryen by neither blood nor marriage.

“If we are lucky, Leyton will attempt to recruit Lord Ardrian to his side,” Jon said though he guessed Hightower was not that daring.

“Once we have the evidence and see all his moves and identify all the conspirators, what then?” Davos inquired with a yawn, reminding Jon that hour grew late.

“Either we arrest him and his retainers before he leaves King’s Landing or we wait until our friend returns to the Starry Sept,” Jon did not say Septon Maynard’s name. The man was once their eyes and ears inside the Starry Sept, until the Most Devout decided he was needed in the Riverlands to replenish their following.

For a time, Jon and his queens thought Maynard’s spying was discovered and his assignment to the Riverlands was meant to render him useless. Now, Maynard was expected to return to his position amongst the Most Devout before the sixth month of the year. _They either mean to feed him disinformation or they never knew._

“He is willing to take that risk?” Davos seemed skeptical.

“He is,” Jon said. _If they murder him, then we will have enough to destroy them all without displeasing the more religious smallfolk._

“And if it comes to war?” Davos continued.

“My Queens and I fly south. Loyal Houses from the Stormlands, the Reach, and Dorne will provide the armies,” Jon said, hoping to avoid that slaughter. The Faith Militant could number ten to twenty thousand in that time, but they would be disorganized, untrained, lacking provisions, and without dragonfire. The greatest trouble would come from Oldtown, but not enough to stop the inevitable.

**Prince Eddard Targaryen**

“What do you think?” Eddard asked after fastening the final piece of armor, a pauldron on Rhaegar’s left shoulder. The armor was black as night and without a sigil, as Eddard had commissioned. He did not want rumors to spread through the Street of Steel of tourney armor with the three-headed dragon marking the breastplate. _You can still ride as a mystery knight if you so choose, brother._

“It is lighter than I expected,” Rhaegar said as he walked in a circle, moving his arms around to test the agility allowed by the armor. After looking down at the armor, examining every inch, he asked, “Whose work is this? I do not see a mark.”

“Tobho Mott, my Prince,” Ser Arthur Dayne answered, standing behind Eddard. “There isn’t a better blacksmith in King’s Landing, I can assure you.” _I would certainly hope so, considering the coin he asked, for the armor and keeping the secret._

The Sword of the Morning donned a black leather jerkin, studded with silver and the falling star of House Dayne. Eddard thought the knight looked odd and could not say why until he realized it was because he was not wearing the armor of the Kingsguard. Rhaegar’s training was meant to be kept a secret and Ser Arthur deemed it necessary to abandon the white cloak in the event they crossed paths with strangers.

Eddard thought they were safe from discovery. Ser Arthur had led them through the tunnels beneath the city and out a hidden entrance near the Iron Gate. As he looked around to ensure they were not being watched, he only spied squirrels climbing a nearby elm as the morning sunlight tried its best to peak through the canopy of woodlands.

“Did he know who the armor was for?” Rhaegar asked as Arghurys and Frost emerged from the brush. Their hunt was a short one, having left when Eddard and Arthur helped Rhaegar into his new armor. Both direwolves returned with specks of blood on the fur around their mouths.

“Tobho Mott is no fool. He knew who I was. He knows it was for a prince. Your secret is safe for now. The coin placed in his hand saw to that,” Ser Arthur said confidently with his hands on the reins of a black charger brought to their hideout by Helman Waters of their household guard.

“Frost, away. Go stand guard,” Rhaegar waved off the curious direwolf as he placed one foot on the stirrup. The white-furred direwolf obliged, padding away alongside Eddard’s own wolf. Both direwolves decided to watch the training beside the brook that followed the flat and uninterrupted ground chosen for Rhaegar to practice the joust.

It was the perfect place for the Crown Prince of House Targaryen to practice. Being close to the hidden tunnel that went beneath the Iron Gate, they were able to come and go in secret. They were far enough away from any roads or hovels to be heard or seen by others. The ground wasn’t perfect, but it was the best they could hope for if Rhaegar wished to keep his intentions a secret.

A fortnight had passed since Rhaegar started his training. The forest floor showed it, with a straight line of dirt running parallel to the rushing waters of the brook. Eddard feared rain on the fifth and sixth days would ruin everything, but the trees overhead prevented the dirt from turning into mud unsuitable for the charger to gallop.

“He is getting better,” Arthur Dayne noted as Rhaegar made his first pass at the stationary opponent. Rhaegar’s lance struck what was supposed to be the heart of his target. Bits of straw flew in the rays of sunlight passing through the gaps in the canopy.

“Good enough to win?” Eddard asked as Rhaegar readied for another pass. More than one hundred knights were expected to enter the joust and many had won tourneys. His brother had not even entered a tourney before. Harys Penrose, Nigel Moore, Erryk Donniger, Richard Kidwell, and Reynard Piper were the favorites, but Eddard held onto the hope one of his brothers would prevail. _If Rhaegar cannot win, let it be Aegon._

“Not now, but in another fortnight, who can say? Your father won the King’s Tourney with little practice and your grandfather was quick to learn the joust. You Targaryens have a way with surprising the Seven Kingdoms at tourney,” Arthur replied, smiling to himself.

“I have heard some say Grandfather was the best champion they had ever seen and others say Ser Barristan let him win,” Eddard said, thinking on all the tales he had heard of the tourney at Harrenhal.

“King Rhaegar was the best of his time, my Prince. As for Ser Barristan letting him win, only Barristan can know the truth of that. I would say no. Your grandfather, my best friend, won that tourney for Queen Lyanna. He loved her and I find it hard to believe anyone could defeat him on that day. Harrenhal was not the only tourney he won. There were others,” Arthur said before shouting instructions to Rhaegar. _The others did not start a war. That is why they are not remembered._

“It seems your brother is very much like your father. I tried to counsel him to enter another tourney first, but he would not listen. Does Princess Arya know of his intentions?” Arthur continued, surprising Eddard that he knew of Rhaegar and Arya’s relationship. _Does Father know? Arthur is closer to him than any._ “Do not worry, I have not told the King or Queens.”

“Arya knows,” Eddard said. When he imagined his older sister being named the Queen of Love and Beauty, he thought it strange. Arya loved swords, flying, riding, and archery, not crowns of roses or other ladylike interests.

“Does Princess Visenya not want a crown of roses?” Arthur inquired.

“I told her I planned to enter the lists many moons ago, but she told me to wait. Senya said I should let Nymeria have her crown first,” Eddard recalled his promise to Senya. He only promised because he thought it would impress her. Eddard cared little for the supposed glory to be found on the tourney grounds. _Did she truly mean it? Should I have refused her plea? Was it a test?_

“Do not worry yourself, my Prince. You are young and there will be many more tourneys for you to crown Princess Visenya. This isn’t a tourney one should promise a victory to the lady who holds their favor. Your brothers are skilled, but they will be competing with every knight and young lord in the Seven Kingdoms. Do not tell them, but the odds are not in their favor,” Arthur pointed out. _I can compete in a tourney on the next royal progress._

Two hours passed before Rhaegar came to sit beside Eddard along the edge of the brook. Their direwolves laid beside them, occasionally stealing a drink from the clear water that rushed down the stream. As Rhaegar drank from his waterskin, Eddard noticed there wasn’t any joy in his brother’s gaze. Rhaegar planned for this tourney as he would for a war, with meticulous preparation and a fierce determination to expel his own weaknesses.

“I spoke with Corlys. If you face Harys Penrose, you must be careful not to fall into his trap. Against his lesser competition, he strikes where he wishes. When he rides against another champion or a rider that is said to be formidable, he aims for the left shoulder. Again, and again, he will strike his opponent with glancing blows while protecting himself. This is when the others think he is trying for points and they grow bolder, no longer lifting their helm to protect their eyes. Then he has them. He strikes hard and true at the top of the breastplate, near the neck,” Eddard informed Rhaegar of what their cousin had seen. Eddard did not see the tactics when he had witnessed Ser Harys ride. He never cared for the joust before, remembering Queen Visenya’s opinion of tourney knights in the South.

“What would you do, if you faced him?” Rhaegar asked.

“Knock him off his horse before he learns to change tactics. Go for his neck,” Eddard advised. Rhaegar’s eyes went wide at the suggestion. Seeing the surprise on his brother’s face, he explained, “I remember his armor. His neck is protected, so you will not kill him.” _Some less honorable knights would like a kill._

“Eddard, do you think I can win? I promised Arya. I promised her,” Rhaegar said with doubt in his eyes.

“You can win, brother. You must practice every day, but you can win,” Eddard tried to raise his brother’s spirits, patting his shoulder. He did not say it, but he also knew Rhaegar needed luck on his side.

“We must end this early. Father wants to speak with me about the tourney and what is expected of me at court,” Rhaegar informed him without complaint.

Eddard felt sorry for his older brother, but the burden Rhaegar carried did not seem to weigh on him. More was expected of Rhaegar than the rest of their siblings and Eddard always questioned if he could ever handle the pressure his brother faced. Whenever he contemplated such things, Eddard always told himself he was meant to be the Prince of Summerhall, to fight for his brother when called upon.

“Remember your lords, ladies, sigils, and House words,” Eddard jested, knowing Rhaegar knew all of them just as he did.

“I remember them,” Rhaegar said with a laugh. “It was easier when we were on Dragonstone and it was just the lords of the Crownlands. Tell me, when do you think you will take your seat at Summerhall?”

“I don’t know…I never thought about it,” Eddard said truthfully. He knew the day would come, but he never dared to guess when. _Many years from now, I hope._ “I suppose after Senya and I are wed. Years from now? I have never discussed it with Father or Mother.”

“I pray it is a long time from now, Eddard. I will need you by my side. I trust Jon and Aegon, but they will go on to rule Winterhall and Fyrestone. Their concerns lie with Dorne and the North. Arya and I will need your support and counsel,” Rhaegar said. “There will lords and knights, all coming to me as friends. I cannot trust any of them, not truly.”

“Father and Mothers still rule. You do not need my counsel,” Eddard replied, confused as to why his brother was saying this. _He has our parents and an entire Small Council, and he needs me?_

“I do. You are my brother and my best friend. As time passes, Father will give me more responsibilities and he always taught us to that a king needs advisors he can trust. I may not be a king, but I will need someone I can trust. I cannot go to Father or Mother every time I question my own decisions,” Rhaegar told him.

“I cannot go with you to Dragonstone,” Eddard warned his brother, knowing he had his own duties.

“I know that, but that will be years from now, I think. Can I count on you until that day?” Rhaegar asked as he slowly found his feet. It was clear he was not used to his armor.

“Aye, you can count on me,” Eddard swore, finding his own feet to embrace his brother. He did not know why his brother sought his advice when it came to matters of ruling. Battle strategies and tactics always came to him easier than politics. The prospect of ruling Summerhall and all its attended lands scared him enough, let alone advising his brother, the Crown Prince.

“You should have seen it. They were beautiful. Purple and orange and yellow silk dresses…Lady Lorea Dalt said she could have them made for us,” Eddard heard as he crossed Senya’s solar. His little sister Ashara giddily spoke of the Dornish who had arrived in King’s Landing hours before. Eddard did not know of the dresses Ashara swooned over, on account of leaving the feast early to join his brothers atop the walls of the Red Keep or he just did not care to notice.

Senya’s solar was dark enough, he nearly stumbled over Autumn, who laid across the floor. The only light came from the stars painting the night sky and the torches lit in sconces on his twin sister’s small terrace. Once he reached the two columns that stood at the beginning of the terrace, he saw Senya leaning against the balustrade with her back turned to him.

“Eddard!” Viserra announced his presence, surprising him with a strong embrace for an eleven-year-old princess. Viserra and Ashara shared Queen Rhaenys’ face, but Viserra inherited the silver hair of House Targaryen while Ashara’s was as black as night. “Tell Senya we are old enough to share the Pentoshi wine,” she whispered in his ear.

“Another time, Viserra,” Eddard lied, not wanting to discover how his parents may react to finding his little sister too far into a cup of Pentoshi wine.

“Fine, I will go to Aegon. He is a good brother,” Viserra said, trying to push him into a poor decision.

“Aye, he is a better brother than I, sweet sister,” he replied to Viserra’s clear displeasure. The pout on her lips was enough to make him laugh.

“Senya, did you see?” Ashara persisted, sitting with her legs up in the chair that sat in the corner of the terrace, opposite to Senya. _Why does she care so much for these dresses? She has plenty of her own._

“Yes, Ash, I saw them,” Senya turned around, gifting him with a warm smile that only she could give. “You are worse than Nymeria, you know that? How many dresses do you have in your wardrobe? Twenty? Thirty? More?”

“Mother says a princess can never have too many dresses,” Ashara argued.

“Did Mother say that? Or Sansa?” Senya replied. _She has the right of it. That does sound like something our sister would say._

“Sansa,” Viserra answered for a silent Ashara, who scrunched her face at her twin.

“Traitor!” Ashara named Viserra, who only shook her head with a look of amusement.

“Who is a traitor?” his little sister, Rhaenys, burst onto the terrace with Lyanna and Lyarra in tow. Eddard thought the sight curious, seeing Lyarra wearing a dress when she did not need to and following Rhaenys around.

“No one is a traitor. Ash is just being foolish. What are you three doing here?” Senya ended an argument before it began.

“We were looking for Viserra and Ashara. The firedancers are outside the gates again. You can see them from Torrhen’s room,” Rhae answered with an eagerness in her voice, telling Eddard his sister wanted to return to Torrhen’s room before the spectacle was over.

“It is magical. You should have seen it. One of them swallowed a flame and blew the flame back out to light his torch,” Lyanna added, reminding Eddard of his little sister’s innocence. He did not have the heart to tell her the firedancers were only clever tricksters and likely cutpurses clamoring to find their way inside the castle walls to steal more than they ever dreamed of.

“I want to see,” Viserra proclaimed, rushing to stand beside their sisters. When she saw Ashara was the only one joining them, she asked, “Are you coming?”

“Go on without me. I do not wish to crowd our brother’s room. I must speak with Eddard anyways,” Senya answered.

Eddard waited until his little sisters were gone and out of sight. Once he was sure they were running down the hallway toward Torrhen’s chambers, he moved in to steal Senya’s lips. He had not kissed her since the previous night and there was nothing to be said before he tasted her again.

“Gods, I never thought I would rid myself of Ashara’s obsession with Dornish dresses. I love our sister, but she forgets who she is talking to,” Senya said without true contempt for Ashara.

“I would like to see you in a Dornish dress,” Eddard confessed. Senya wore a green dress that covered all but her hands, neck, and face, in the northern fashion. His hands reflexively went to the back of her dress until he thought better of it.

“You want to see me half-naked,” Senya countered.

“You wouldn’t be half-naked,” Eddard replied, now imagining what she would look like naked if he dared to undress her on the terrace.

“Well, that isn’t me,” Senya said before turning back to the sight of the city below. Visenya’s Hill looked beautiful with the Dragonhall’s red marble baked in firelight and the countless specks of light marking the homes surrounding the hill. “How goes Rhaegar’s training?”

“He will do well, I think. But who is to say until he faces a real foe in a real tilt?” Eddard surmised. _Father always said all the training helps, but nothing compares to a real battle. The stakes are not the same, but it should be the same for a tourney, should it not?_

“Well…I hope one of our sisters is named Queen of Love and Beauty,” Senya responded in a tone that was either sad or uncaring. Eddard could not decide.

“Did you want to be named Queen of Love and Beauty? I can still train and find my own armor. I can ready…,” Eddard rushed to her side, placing a hand on the small of her back to show he cared.

“No, you misunderstand. I do not want a crown of roses. And I do not want to see you riding in some tourney. That is not you. We are the blood of Old Valyria, but we also have the blood of the First Men running through our veins, Eddard. You are more Northman than southron knight,” Senya said, looking up at him with her ethereal eyes. _She never wanted it. I did not listen before, not truly._

“I do not think the northmen would consider me one of their own. I have not lived through a northern winter nor lived above the Neck for more than a year,” Eddard said, asking himself what the free folk would think of everyone born south of the wall. _All of us are southerners in their eyes._

“No, I suppose they would not, but my point still stands. I do not need you riding with shining armor and a stupid lance to prove you love me. Honestly, it surprises me Arya even wants Rhaegar to partake. It must be the queen in her,” Senya whispered before burying her face into his chest as he held her close.

“Can I stay?” Eddard asked some time later, with Senya sitting in his lap so they could look up at the stars together from her terrace.

“I don’t know…should you?” she teased, compelling him find her weak spots. “No! Eddard, stop! Stop it!” she commanded, laughing until he decided it was enough.

“Should I find my own bed?” Eddard found his voice again after Senya placed a searing kiss on his lips, successfully distracting him from his own teasing.

“No, you can stay,” Senya granted his wish. He beamed uncontrollably as he planned what all they would do before truly finding their sleep. “Eddard, promise me it will always be like this.”

“Like this?” he furrowed his brow in confusion, not understanding what they were talking about.

“This,” she fisted his doublet before inching closer so their brows were resting against one another’s. “When we are together, it is just us and only us. Nothing and no one are between us. Do you understand?”

“I do,” Eddard said with what he thought was a voice of iron conviction. _I think I know what she means._

“Take me to our bed,” she ordered and Eddard obeyed, lifting her in his arms as he stood from the chair he sat. The path from the terrace, through her solar, into her bedchamber was etched in his memory. His eyes did not leave hers or her skin until sleep claimed them both.

**Princess Daenerys Targaryen**

“Dunk, no!” Dany begged her direwolf, but he did not listen. With a shake, water sprayed from his grey fur. She was ready to scold Dunk further, but his sorrowful eyes silenced Dany. _Can a direwolf be sorrowful?_

“Sometimes I worry for them,” her mother, Queen Visenya noted, as Dunk scurried from the pavilion to chase after his brothers and sisters in the royal gardens. After picking a pear from the table, her mother continued, “They belong in the North, not here in King’s Landing.”

“Misty belongs here. She is a good direwolf,” Sansa defended her direwolf from across the table. As always, Sansa’s wolf was well-behaved and lying at her feet. Dany’s sister had named her wolf for the mist that could cover Dragonstone in the mornings.

“Sansa…,” their mother started with a disappointed look on her face. “Next time we visit the orphanages, at least pretend you want to be there.”

Their mother did not miss much. Dany had seen it, but said nothing. Sansa cared about court, songs, dances, and her newest dress. Ruling the Seven Kingdoms and attending to the smallfolk was of little concern to her.

“But I didn’t. I told you I did not want to go. Dany and Arya and Sarra were with you. Why did I need to go?” Sansa furrowed her brow, still oblivious to the responsibilities that came with being a Princess of House Targaryen.

“Things are expected of us, of our House. Tell me, why do we visit the poor and bring them food and clothes?” their mother asked.

“It is our duty…the orphans need our help…it is the right thing to do. I don’t know,” Sansa answered.

“Aye, those are reasons, perhaps the most important reasons. Sansa, it is not just your father and I who rule the Realm. It is our House and that includes you. We rule the highborn and lowborn alike. We cannot rule the Seven Kingdoms if the smallfolk are set against us. Our family has paid a price whenever we have turned our backs on them. You are old enough to understand these things and that means we will expect more of you. You will need to accompany me and your sisters on more…,” their mother said until Sansa stood to leave. “Sansa! Sansa, where are you going?”

“Brandon,” Dany answered for her sister, almost feeling sorry for her. She could see Sansa did not want more or any real responsibilities. “She always runs to him when she is upset. Do you want me to go after her?”

“No,” her mother said sadly before looking away at the sea behind them. “I forget, not all your sisters are like you. You were born to rule, Dany. Every day, I see it more and more.”

“Sansa just needs time. I hated it when I first went to visit the poor,” Dany defended her little sister. “I wanted to fly Vyraxes or spar or be anywhere else. I was bored and it felt like I was wasting time, doing something another could do. It was Arya who told me how I should present myself and represent House Targaryen. I should do the same with Sansa.”

“Give her time or she will think I sent you,” her mother counseled.

“I will,” Dany promised, knowing there was wisdom in her mother’s advice.

“Dany, tell me what you thought of the septon,” her mother asked.

“Septon Tyben? He seems decent. He cares for the orphans and the poor in Flea Bottom, does he not?” Dany wondered what she was missing. Tyben was the highest ranking septon in King’s Landing. He answered to the Starry Sept, but Dany had never heard of him or any of the other septons or septas in the city preaching against House Targaryen.

“He certainly cares more than some…Did you see his chambers when we walked through the orphanage? No? Well, our visit was unexpected and our humble septon was not prepared to accept us. I noticed a cask of Arbor gold and what looked like a purse of coin he failed to hide,” her mother informed her. _I know, I know, I should be more observant._

“You think he is a traitor?” Dany asked, guessing the septon was being paid by the Hightowers or some other enemy.

“A traitor? No, but a thief? Yes,” her mother dismissed her initial suspicion. “He would not make for a good spy, given how little he crosses paths with anyone at court. He stole from the coin we gave him and sells some of the food and clothes we provide.”

“Why didn’t you have him arrested? He must pay for his crimes,” Dany said, angered to know the man was still free to steal from the poor of Flea Bottom.

“In a perfect world, he would, but the world is not perfect. We have enough problems with the Faith, we cannot be perceived to be moving against them. Not yet, anyway. The Most Devout would use his arrest against us. After we have dealt with the High Septon and Lord Hightower, we will make this Septon Tyben an offer,” her mother offered her reasons for inaction.

“You intend to make him your spy,” Dany realized her mother’s plan.

“A Queen always needs spies and this one will come free. He will have a great deal of information to offer. All of the members of the Faith in the Crownlands answer to him and the poor in this city trust him. He is of greater value to us out there, pretending to serve his seven gods than rotting in a black cell,” her mother said with a bit of displeasure. _Jon and I will have to find our own spies when we claim Winterhall._

“How do you know you can trust him?” Dany questioned.

“I can’t. Not yet, anyway. If you have enough spies, you can use them to spy on each other and even then, you sometimes cannot trust what they say. They could be given misinformation or they have been spying on you all along,” her mother answered with a lesson Dany told herself to remember.

“There you are!” Dany heard the familiar sound of her brother’s voice. She turned in her chair to see Jon marching toward the pavilion with Brandon at his side. Jon was dressed all in black, as he preferred it, while Brandon donned a red doublet similar in color to her own dress.

“Grandmaester Pylos had us imprisoned in the library. Aemon would have loved it,” Brandon jested taking the chair next to their mother. Jon leaned down to capture Dany’s lips and take the empty seat at her side.

“I now have the honor of knowing every grandchild and second cousin of Lord Wyman Manderly as well as the rest of the Northern Houses,” Jon grumbled.

“And for good reason. We have decided you and your sister shall have the honor of escorting your uncle and the Northern lords through the Dragon Gate. I want you both to enjoy this tourney, but you still have your duties. Tormund Giantsbane and some of the free folk from Long Lake will be with them. It is time you meet with them and earn their respect and trust,” their mother instructed them with a hopeful smile, telling Dany she believed in them.

“They will love Dany after they see her win the archery. And if they see you spar…,” Jon said with pride until their mother cut in.

“No doubt, the free folk will prefer a princess who can wield a blade, my son. But make no mistake, that will not earn their undying loyalty. It is likely they will laugh when they see this tourney and all these southern knights gallivanting around in their shining armor. Your sister loosing arrows at still targets will mean little to them as well,” their mother reminded them with a pinch of amusement in her voice. “Better you invite some of the spearwives to the training yard and be sure to wait along the Kingsroad with your dragons. The free folk will be impressed if they see you command dragons.”

“Can I be there with them?” Brandon eagerly pled.

“You may. Take Sansa with you. The four of you shall be a sufficient escort to the Red Keep,” their mother granted Brandon his wish. “Forgive me children, but I must speak with your grandmothers about an old friend, alone.”

Dany saw not only her grandmothers Lyanna and Elia approaching, but Queen Daenerys and Queen Rhaenys as well, each of them guarded by their direwolves and a number of household guard. Brienne of Tarth and Ser Barristan Selmy led them to the pavilion until Zokla and Snow brushed past the knights to join Silver in the shade provided by the roof over their heads.

“Vaella and Alysanne were asking to fly on the dragons. It is not even midday…,” Jon suggested as they excused themselves from the table with Brandon following behind them.

“You are beautiful, even without the damned flower,” Jon whispered, staring at her with his grey eyes. She liked the flower he had placed above her ear, firmly stuck in her braid.

“Come here,” Dany commanded, pulling his jerkin down so she could finally kiss him. She wanted to do more than kiss him and she knew he felt the same with his hard cock pressing against her. When their lips parted, she remembered her sisters in the field below. “You should be down there, protecting them.”

“They will be fine,” Jon replied before kissing her again, teasing her bottom lip with his tongue. “Brandon and Sansa are with them.”

After leaving the royal gardens, Dany followed Jon to the Dragonpit with Alysanne and Vaella coming with them. Brandon and Sansa also joined, riding with Jon on Darkskye while their little sisters flew with Dany on Vyraxes.

“Brandon is an able protector, but he is not you. If Father found out,” Dany tried to warn her brother, but he only shook his head.

“Darkskye and Vyraxes are watching them. Besides, there isn’t a village or farm to be seen for miles. They are perfectly fine,” Jon defended his decision to stay with her.

“Vyraxes, keep an eye on them,” Dany yelled in High Valyrian to her dragon. The flame red scales on Vyraxes glimmered in the sunlight, making the dragon look as magnificent as any dragon who had ever lived.

“What?” Dany asked, seeing a silly smirk on his lips.

“Nothing, it is stupid,” Jon said.

“No, what is it?” she asked, wondering what amused him.

“I like it when you speak Valyrian, that is all,” he confessed.

“You do? Is it because I speak our mother tongue when you are making me cum?” Dany asked as she felt herself getting wet just thinking about it.

“Yes and no. I just like hearing it from you, that is all,” Jon replied. Dany wanted to kiss him again until she felt his hand slowly slide beneath her riding breeches.

“No, not here,” Dany stopped Jon, fighting to control her own urges and his. Jon did as she asked, but rolled off her to sit in the grass beside her.

“We didn’t make it far,” Jon noted as they looked out onto the fields and the woods below. Further beyond, Dany could see Blackwater Bay and an endless coast that stretched to the east. They had only flown fifty miles from King’s Landing.

“Far enough,” Dany said, knowing they could not linger for long. It would be frowned upon if they returned in the middle of the night, considering Alysanne and Vaella were with them.

“One day, we will live far from here, in our own keep,” Jon said.

“Are you afraid?” she asked, not mocking him. Dany felt nervous for their future, without their parents to protect them or even advise them.

“Nervous, but I am not afraid. Never with you,” Jon said as she laid her head on his shoulder. “Where do you think our brothers and sisters will go?”

“I don’t know. I suppose some will stay in King’s Landing or Dragonstone. Others will go to Summerhall or Fyrestone. Some may go with us and if any of our sisters wed some high lord, they will live in their castle.”

“Brandon and Sansa, do you think they will come with us?” Jon asked.

“Sansa, in the North? I think not,” Dany laughed at the notion. Her sister cared too much for the luxuries of court and the pleasant weather the Crownlands had to offer. “Do not worry, brother. We will not be alone. After we are wed, I mean to give you princes and princesses to run through our castle.”

“How did our parents do it? They were so young and across the Narrow Sea. Rhaegar and Arya are almost Father and Mother’s age when they conquered Pentos and a khalasar. I still do not feel ready to rule a castle of my own or be a father,” Jon worried needlessly about their future.

“You will be ready when the time comes. It will be years before we leave and as for children, well, we can wait or have them before we leave,” Dany said as she thought about their future.

“You are sure?”

“I am. You will be a great father. I know it in my heart,” Dany tried to comfort him with another kiss.

“What do you think they were meeting about, our mothers?” Jon asked after a long silence.

“Nothing good,” Dany decided. _We are free to sit in on any Small Council meeting and are often told to join. They rarely keep secrets from us. It must be important._

“Dany! Dany!” Vaella called her name, running up the hill with her silver hair bouncing freely, unbraided. Alysanne was just behind her, both in purple dresses that matched their eyes. Both nine-year-old princesses were difficult to tell apart, but not for Dany. Something about their noses and chins were slightly different.

“Yes?” Dany answered Vaella’s call. _I shall speak with Jon later about the meeting._

“Are we going to be betrothed at the tourney? Sansa says so and Mariah Wyl said most of the lords at the tourney want to wed their sons to us. Please tell Father I do not want to. Please tell him. I don’t,” Vaella begged, surprising Dany she had not thought this through.

“Vaella, calm down. You are not going to be betrothed at the tourney. Father would not do that and you should know better than to fall for one of Sansa’s cruel japes,” Dany told her sister. She looked past Vaella and Alysanne to find Sansa occupied, kissing Brandon, not realizing the panic she had stirred. _Maybe she does know and does not care._

“I told you,” Alysanne made sure to tell her twin sister.

“Your surprise me, little sister. You could tell me the histories of Old Valyria and the Rhoynar, but you listen to Sansa about this,” Dany laughed, shaking her head. Deciding to impart some advice on her sisters, she motioned for them to come closer. “If the day should come and Father plans to betroth you to some lordling you despise, go to him, not me. He will not be able to refuse your wishes, I promise.”

“When will you marry?” Vaella directed toward Dany and Jon.

“I don’t know, we were just talking about the future,” Dany answered as she looked to her brother. Jon shared her smile as they both thought of finally being husband and wife. “After Rhaegar and Arya, I suppose.”

“Father and Mothers still do not know about them,” Alysanne said, though Dany wondered if her sister actually believed it.

“Sometimes, I think they do,” Dany told her sisters, guessing her parents were not blind to Rhaegar and Arya’s sneaking around.

“Dany, is it true, there will be a war? Will the Faith Militant come for us?” Alysanne asked as she sat beside Dany in the grass while Vaella went to Jon’s side.

“What? No, there will be no war,” Dany lied, knowing a conflict was coming. After more and more news came to them from the Reach, Dany was sure the Faith Militant would still fight even if the Hightowers ended their support for the dissent.

“But long ago, when King Aenys ruled, the Faith…,” Alysanne started until Jon tried to calm their sisters’ worries. _They are too smart for their own good._

“That was different, Alysanne. The Faith Militant are far away in Oldtown. They cannot get to you here and I would not allow it. Father, Rhaegar, Eddard, Aegon, and I will protect you, I swear it. Remember, you are a dragon. Dragons do not scare,” Jon did not lie to them, but he made the threat seem smaller than it was with a calm demeanor.

“Whatever you have heard, sisters, it is exaggerated. Trust us. We have sat in on the Small Council meetings and there is nothing to worry about. Besides, you should be looking forward to this tourney. All our cousins will be there. Nymella, Elys, Amanda, Alys, and Serena,” Dany said, not naming them all.

“Will there be feasts every night like last year?” Vaella asked.

“It is the same for every King’s Tourney, only this one will be the greatest we have seen. All the Houses in the Seven Kingdoms will be represented, even those from the North and the Iron Islands. And if rumors are to be believed, there will be guests from the Bay of Dragons and Qarth,” Dany told her sisters what she had learned.

“You were born in Yunkai. Will there be Yunkish?” Alysanne asked.

“I hope,” Dany replied. She had never met a person from Yunkai that she could remember and she remembered nothing from her birthplace.

“Shall we return?” Brandon yelled, marching up the hill with a lovesick Sansa on his arm.

“Aye,” Jon answered after asking her with his eyes if she wanted to leave.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shorter chapter than usual. The next one should be the same w/ POVs from Queen Visenya, Naerys, & Aegon. Chapters 8 & 9 will feel slower than other probably, but there are a few very important parts/conversations in them. Chapter 10 is when Robb Stark and everyone else arrives for the tourney. I am looking forward to the tourney bc this chapter and ch9 have been struggles. (And the appendix should be getting an update soon)
> 
> Please comment w/ any questions, criticisms, etc.


	9. The Future of the Faith

**Queen Visenya Targaryen**

“Where is he?” Visenya asked as she sat in the darkened room within Ser Tristan Hayford’s holdfast. She could see little outside the window to her left, only the stables and two hovels that laid within the small stone wall surrounding the holdfast.

“Apologies, your Grace, but I see nothing,” Jonothor Darry answered, peering out another window across the room. The Kingsguard’s white cloak and shining armor were replaced by boiled leather, worn leather boots, and a wool traveling cloak, all in black. It seemed he could see nothing either, on account of the clouds and a sliver of a moon. Everything outside was black and Visenya guessed if the sky were clear and the moon full, they would still see nothing and no one. _I should have brought Silver._

Patience was needed, so Visenya turned her eyes from the yard outside her window to the roasted pork, black bread, beans, carrots, and apples before her on the small table pushed against the wall. Ser Tristan’s cook was kind enough to wake in the middle of the night and present her with a meal for the visit. It wasn’t as fine a meal as the ones cooked inside the Red Keep, but Visenya could not complain. Ser Tristan lived in a modest keep to say the least and she did not expect his smallfolk to serve her a grand feast after she arrived unannounced.

“It seems we must wait,” Visenya replied before finishing what was left on her plate as a courtesy.

Ser Tristan Hayford’s holdfast seemed a pleasant place to live, certainly more than other places Visenya had seen in her life. It stood three miles from the Kingsroad, surrounded by thick woodlands of oak, elm, and chestnut, or so she could tell from where Silverclaw had landed in the middle of the night. She prayed her dragon would rest and make himself unseen until their return to the Dragonpit.

Much effort had gone into this meeting. Only herself, her King, her fellow Queens, Lord Davos, the Kingsguard, Ser Tristan, some Unsullied, and Lord Varys knew of this meeting. After a lively feast inside the Great Hall, Visenya made sure she was seen returning to Maegor’s Holdfast for the night by the lords, ladies, knights, and spies inside the castle. But once she found her chambers, she made for the secret passages of the Red Keep instead of her bed.

Using the tunnels beneath King’s Landing, Visenya snuck her way to the Dragonpit with Ser Jonothor as her protector. Black Spear and five Unsullied were there, waiting to escort her and the old knight to her silver-scaled dragon. She sensed Ser Jonothor’s apprehension and pitied his sense of duty. Visenya thought to leave him behind, knowing she would have Dark Sister and Silverclaw with her, but she held her tongue. Ser Jonothor flew with her, avoiding Jon’s protective fury.

“M’Lady…I mean, apologies, your Grace. If it pleases your Grace, there is more roasted pork and…,” the cook tripped over her own words. The woman’s voice was shaky and her hands trembled. _Has she even crossed paths with a high lord? Likely not._ “Or cider, we have plenty a cider.”

“No, that will be all for me,” Visenya spoke softly as the cook moved in to take away the empty plate before her. “Penny, is it?”

“Penny? Oh, yes, my Queen, you…you remember my name,” Penny replied. Visenya could see the cook was no older than herself. If she were highborn, Visenya thought Penny would make a beautiful bride for many lords or knights. The cook did not look it now, but Visenya could tell there was more hair under that cap and she certainly did not steal from the kitchens given the figure hidden beneath the cook’s dress.

“Of course, I remember your name. Please, sit,” Visenya offered the seat across the table. Penny looked hesitant, probably thinking her offer a trick or some cruel jest. It was only after Visenya motioned for the woman to sit that she obliged.

“Tell me, do you have children?” Visenya asked, curious to know how many children a cook could support, if she had any at all.

“Yes, your Grace. Three of them. Two boys and a girl,” Penny answered with a smile.

“And what are their names?” Visenya asked, leaning forward so the cook understood she had a queen’s full attention.

“Hal is my oldest, twelve years of age. He is smart and strong, like his father. He wants to be a knight one day. Jared is eight and follows his brother wherever he goes. And Leyla, my baby, she is only five. She is the sweetest girl, your Grace. Sweet and kind and beautiful. She knows all the songs of the Riverlands and Crownlands already and…Sorry, your Grace, I go on about them too much,” Penny apologized.

“They sound like lovely children. Mayhaps one day, your sons will be knights and little Leyla will grow up to be wed to one,” Visenya replied, placing a comforting hand over Penny’s. “I am sure you have heard I have many sons and daughters of my own.”

“They say Prince Jon and Prince Brandon will be great warriors. Is it true, Princess Daenerys will compete against the archers in the tourney? Princess Arya is a heroine of my Leyla. Everyone heard of her victory at the last King’s Tourney,” Penny said, no longer nervous to speak with Visenya.

“It is true, my Dany plans to enter the archery competition. My sons all want to be like their father. They make me proud, but sometimes a mother worries and wishes they would put down the swords for a book. My son, Aemon, he is thirteen and he is certainly smarter than I ever was. I do not think I will have to worry about him picking up a sword, unless the gods are unkind and bring another war to the Seven Kingdoms,” Visenya said, wanting to tell the cook more of her children until she saw the confused look on Penny’s face. “What is it?”

“I thought Prince Aemon was Queen Daenerys’ son,” Penny replied. _I am surprised the smallfolk even bother to know which prince or princess is born to whichever queen._

“Queen Daenerys brought him into this world, but I still consider him one of my own. I sometimes forget when I speak with others, there are not many families like mine,” Visenya explained. _There are none like my family, in truth._

Visenya spent another hour speaking with the cook, learning more about her family and what life was like as cook living within the small holdfast. She listened carefully for details about Ser Tristan and his lord father and how the Hayfords treated their smallfolk. And when Penny was not recounting a tale involving her three children, Visenya was telling the cook about her own.

Careful to leave out anything that could be used against her family, Visenya spoke of Jaehaerys and his wisdom, Sansa and her kindness, Rhaegar and his leadership qualities, and so on. It did not take long for Visenya to realize she had told the cook something about all her children, something she had only done with family and close friends. As one of the Queens of the Seven Kingdoms, she never spared this much time for even the most important of ladies she did not call friend.

“Tell me, is it a hard life, farming these lands?” Visenya asked after deciding Penny had likely lost track of all the princes and princesses. “Please, speak freely and truthfully. I do not mean to get you in trouble with Ser Tristan.”

“Ser Tristan is a good man, your Grace. These are good lands, my husband says. Luck and good fortune have come to our family. Every harvest has been more plentiful than the last. The only troubles…,” Penny said until stopping herself.

“Go on,” Visenya gave the cook’s hand a gentle squeeze, tearing the truth from her. With years of practice and a handful of royal progresses, Visenya had learned to pry to the truth from smallfolk through kindness and making them feel like their voices were heard.

“Well, the hardest times were during the war. The Lannisters and those westermen came through these lands, burning and stealing and worse. Our family was one of the lucky ones. These lands were peaceful when King Rhaegar ruled and they are peaceful now, thank the gods,” Penny said.

“And I promise you, the King’s peace will stay. I should think I raised my children better than to be like my grandfather or my craven uncle,” Visenya said. _And should any of the other Houses rebel, the war will be a short one._ “You worship the Seven, do you not?”

“I do, your Grace,” Penny said.

“And what does the Faith think of House Targaryen? Do the faithful hate us or fear the Faith will be cast aside? Trust me, what some of them say is not true. We do not pray to any fire god. I keep the old gods if it can be said I keep any gods at all. I know that must sound strange, but I do not wish to lie to you. My King and I want the people of the Realm to pray to any gods they so choose,” Visenya replied, trying to see if she was dealing with a reasonable follower of the Seven.

“The septon in Brindlewood comes to these lands sometimes. He says the Seven are the only gods and we should forgive our brothers and sisters who do not believe. He says the Seven sent us House Targaryen and the dragons, to protect us from the Night King and the Long Night. That is why his Grace came back, I think, but I was not there,” Penny answered carefully.

“In the Reach, there are some who say we are godless sinners who deserve the worst of deaths and we will burn in all seven hells. Do they believe that here?” Visenya asked, curious to know if their spies and informants were as accurate as she hoped.

“No, your Grace,” Penny said without pause, reassuring Visenya not all the followers of the Faith were set against them. “House Targaryen fed me and mine during the three-year winter when the crops could not grow. I will not forget and neither will the people of the Crownlands.”

“My Queen, they are here,” Ser Jonothor Darry warned Visenya.

“I must be leaving, your Grace,” Penny said as she stood from the table with an imperfect curtsy before lifting the plate and empty cup of cider off the table.

“Wait, here,” Visenya stopped the cook, handing her five silvers. “For your sons and daughters. Next time I am on the Kingsroad, I should like to stay here and see them.”

“Thank you, your Grace. Thank you. May the Seven bless House Targaryen,” Penny replied, offering another clumsy curtsy before disappearing to wherever the kitchen laid within the holdfast.

Visenya stood in the middle of the room, waiting and listening. She could hear the whinny of horses and the grumbling of one of the riders who had arrived at the holdfast. Ser Jonothor kept his eyes fixed onto the window until he did not and moved toward the door with his hand on his sword’s grip. She did the same, ready to wield Dark Sister in case the riders were not who they were supposed to be.

“Ser Jonothor,” Ser Tristan Hayford entered the door from whence he left hours before. His clothing showed no signs of his noble birth nor which House he served. A simple grey cloak covered the brown leather jerkin that matched his short hair and trimmed beard. His boots and riding breeches were also a dark brown. If he crossed paths with anyone, they would not know he was a knight. “My Queen,” he bowed before moving aside.

After the knight came Septon Maynard with two members of the Targaryen household guard behind him. The guards wore simple travelers’ clothing instead of their blacks and reds. Each greeted her with bows and your Graces before moving to the unoccupied windows around the room, looking out for any spies or signs of a threat.

Septon Maynard looked older than she had last seen him, but still young for a man in his mid-fifties. He was a short man, no taller than herself, with a balding head with greys and whites on the side. His face was clean shaven and his eyes were a dark green, matching his cloak. He wore the clothes of a lowborn farmer instead of the robes of a septon. _I see why the smallfolk of the Riverlands listen to him. He looks like one of them, without the colorful belts, the shining crystal, and the white robes._

“Your Grace! It warms my heart to see you. What has it been? Five years? Most unfortunate, yes, most unfortunate. I regret we must meet in such manner, but it is needed, I am afraid,” Septon Maynard greeted her with a warm enthusiasm in his soft, low voice.

“It has been six years and six years too long. I regret the circumstances of this meeting as well, but I presume it cannot be helped,” Visenya replied, motioning for him to take the open seat across the table that was previously occupied by Penny. Maynard accepted, moving swiftly for a man of his age to take his seat.

“You are even more beautiful than your mother, my Queen, but please do not tell Queen Lyanna I said so. I still remember the day your mother and father wed in Dorne…a beautiful day. A good king he was. A good king. Tell me, my Queen, is there a chance I can sway you to pray at a sept and follow the Seven? I am not asking you to abandon your old gods, nor those Valyrian gods,” Maynard asked.

“No, I am afraid not, Septon. Truth be told, I have not been too fond of the gods, new or old, since my father and brother were killed,” Visenya said as she remembered how fond of the old gods she used to be. As a girl in Winterfell, a day did not pass without visiting the godswood and listening for the trees to give her answers to questions she did not know to ask.

“I can understand. A great many lost their faith, in the Seven and the old gods after the war. I have seen it everywhere across the Riverlands, from townsfolk to farmers, to the servants in a holdfast such as this one. Even the high lords and knights have lost their faith, though I cannot blame them. Who did not lose a father, brother, son, or uncle in that war? Some lost all and worse. And that red priestess, she did not help matters,” Maynard finished in a jesting tone, reminding her of Lady Melisandre and what had once been the worst day of her life.

“The Lady Melisandre seems to have that effect on people. It is true, she has few allies and fewer friends, but I must count myself as one of her allies, as much as it pains me,” Visenya admitted.

“She saved his Grace. It is understandable she has the support of the Iron Throne. Where did she go?” Maynard asked.

“Volantis, I presume, possibly Asshai. She has a talent for evading Lord Varys’ little birds, much to his chagrin,” Visenya laughed, finding no harm in telling Maynard the truth. The septon had proven himself a trustworthy confidant over the years, never once repeating their discussions.

“She can conjure shadow demons, set a hundred thousand swords aflame, and bring back our King. Mayhaps I have been following the wrong gods,” Septon Maynard laughed, shaking his head. “No, I am too old to change now. Change is for the young.”

“Not all change,” Visenya replied, thinking of House Targaryen’s plans for the future of the Faith and its place in the Seven Kingdoms.

“Ah, yes, these troubles in the Reach. The smallfolk will be the first to suffer, no doubt,” Maynard said with a defeated acceptance.

“They already have. There have been Ironborn attacks along the coast, or so Lord Leyton would have us believe,” Visenya replied. _Or he knows we know and thinks he has leverage regardless._ “And now the Faith Militant are arming themselves. Every day, their numbers grow. Soon, they will have their own little army. House Targaryen will not allow these provocations to continue. Do you understand?”

“My Queen…when I was young and foolish and a simple septon at the Starry Sept, I would have begged you to seek peace. Now I am old and a little wiser, but I am not blind like the boy I was then. I have seen men who proclaim to serve the Seven commit terrible sins and use a holy man’s faith to further their own ends. Such men are a danger, not just to House Targaryen or the great Houses. They are a threat to the realms of men. So, yes, I do understand. I know you to be a good queen, like your mother before you,” the septon answered.

“No matter how this conflict unfolds, we will not allow the Starry Sept to continue as it is,” Visenya promised.

“Nor should it,” Maynard agreed.

“Tell me, are there any allies to be found among the Most Devout? Are there any septons or septas in the Starry Sept who will accept our rule?” Visenya asked, hoping Maynard knew better than Varys’ little birds. According the Spider, the High Septon and the Most Devout had filled the Starry Sept with zealots.

“No, my Queen, but you already knew that. The poison has spread from the top, but do not mistake the High Septon as a clever or bold man. It is Septon Mathos who whispers in the High Septon’s ear, with Lord Leyton’s voice. One of my greater regrets…After the High Sparrow and his sparrows fell, I was too slow to act. Mathos and his kin were quick to name Bariman as High Septon and fill the Starry Sept with Hightowers…A wrong I must right,” Maynard said, ducking his head as if he was ashamed. Visenya wanted to comfort the septon, but failed to speak up before he continued. “Tell me, how can I serve the Realm?”

“The septons and holy brothers who travel with you, can they be trusted?” Visenya inquired, wondering if Varys was correct to assume they were not men loyal to Oldtown.

“I trust they are not servants of the High Septon or the Most Devout, but I would not trust them with a secret. They are good and honest men, but they are naïve. Could they hold a secret? I dare not risk to discover the answer. That is why I asked we meet here, unseen,” Maynard told her.

“They sent for you. Do you think they suspect?” Visenya asked.

“Who is to say? Their message mentioned trouble with the smallfolk north of Horn Hill. Lords Tarly and Tyrell have been sending their septons and holy brothers back to Oldtown. They know the smallfolk are fond of me. I think they mean to use me to push through the Reach with their sermons and eventually establish the Militant in the Riverlands….Mayhaps even Dorne, though I do not know if the Dornish will remember me,” Maynard explained.

“It is a risk, riding south,” Visenya warned the septon.

“A risk worth taking, your Grace,” Maynard swore in a soft, but sure tone.

“When you return to Oldtown, learn what you can and tread carefully. It is my hope the Hightowers are dealt with soon after the King’s Tourney, but I know better than to rely on a hope,” Visenya continued, looking for fear or regret in the old man’s eyes. She saw none.

“I will not be able to send a raven once I have reached Oldtown. They will be watching me,” Maynard cautioned.

“Varys’ birds will come to you. They will prove themselves true, giving you a message that can only come from myself or my mother. And if you carry news that is urgent, go to Seneschal Marwyn. The Devout will know where your allegiances lie should you go to him, but he will protect you, I swear it,” Visenya promised, knowing their greatest ally in Oldtown would shield Maynard from the Faith Militant and House Hightower.

“The Starry Sept nor the Hightower would dare attack the Citadel. Very wise, my Queen,” Maynard praised her for the rather obvious strategy. After carefully thinking to himself, the septon continued, “Your Grace, I know prayers, songs, sermons, and what faith can do for the people of this realm, but I know nothing of the game played by high lords. Tell me, truthfully. How will this unfold?”

“I should like to think Lord Leyton will see reason and abandon his plots, but that is a fool’s hope. This conflict could take on dozens of forms, some that we may not foresee. Leyton Hightower and his sons will be seized and put in chains once we learn all we need to know. That will either happen in King’s Landing or on the road south after the Tourney. The Hightowers in Oldtown will be forced to abandon the High Septon and the Devout. After that, I presume they will lose their courage, leaving just the Faith Militant. They will fight,” Visenya offered her opinion.

“How do you know?” Maynard asked.

“A friend once told me, there is a beast in every man and it stirs when you put a sword in his hand,” Visenya recalled Ser Jorah Mormont’s words in Astapor. Maynard understood her meaning, requiring her to explain no further. “When the dust has settled, House Targaryen will need a friend in the Starry Sept. A High Septon who is wise and peaceful…trusted by the people. I speak for my King and fellow Queens when I say we wish for you to serve as the High Septon.”

“Your Grace…it…it would be my honor,” Maynard struggled to find his voice, overwhelmed by the news. Visenya could not decide if the septon was feigning his surprise or if his reaction was truly genuine. “Your Grace, the Starry Sept…”

“Will need to be cleansed, yes. The High Septon, the Most Devout, all of the septons and septas, the holy brothers and sisters, and even the silent sisters. All of them must be removed,” Visenya confirmed. “Unless of course there are those you trust.”

“A few, your Grace. What will you do with them?” Maynard posed the question she did not want to hear. Maynard was a good friend and a reliable ally to House Targaryen, but he was also a holy man. _Will he have the stomach for this bloodshed?_

“I will not lie to you. Depending on their crimes, some will go to the black cells until the end of their days. The High Septon and the Devout and the rest will hang if we are kind. They have conspired against the Iron Throne and armed the Faith Militant. The Realm has bled for their crimes and I am afraid it will only bleed more in the coming months. I know you are a merciful man, but rulers do not always get to choose mercy and there are those who do not deserve it,” Visenya defended the fates she had determined for her foes.

“We all have our roles to play, my Queen. That is why you are the ruler and I, the septon,” Maynard said without protest. “Assuming I am not riding south to be poisoned or disappeared and the conspirators are dealt with, what then? Have you changed your mind on our vision for the Faith of the Seven and its place in the Seven Kingdoms?”

“I have not,” Visenya affirmed her confidence in what they had envisioned for the Faith shortly after their reign began.

Maynard had agreed to all their proposed decrees and formed some of his own. The Faith would no longer accumulate wealth and instead spend most of their coin on the poor. Septons supporting any form of the Faith Militant would be hanged. Secret trials and all forms of justice for sinners overseen by the Faith would cease. They had also come to the agreement the Starry Sept would no longer support aggressive expansion of the Faith into lands where other gods were favored.

“Before you leave, we must discuss the future of the Faith and House Targaryen. Many of your septons and followers detest my marriage. They will detest the marriages of my children. It must end or this will happen again. Perhaps not during my reign, but Rhaegar’s or his son’s,” Visenya said, remembering the septon could not stay missing from his room at the inn for long.

“I have a solution that will sway the minds of the smallfolk. Well, most of them. After I have rid the Reach of the septons less inclined to see reason, I will send forth a few dozen men I trust. They will remind the smallfolk, House Targaryen is the blood of Old Valyria and your ways have always been so, since before the Doom. It is not for men to judge, as the gods had made dragonriders different than other men,” Septon Maynard sang a familiar song.

“The Doctrine of Exceptionalism,” Visenya stated.

“Yes, but that was a doctrine for a different time and a different ruler. If your Graces and the gods deem me worthy to lead the Faith, I will spread a stronger doctrine. My Queen, you saved the Seven Kingdoms from the Night King and a night without end. Thousands of men returned to their homes and families. They remember their queens flying into battle and their king giving his life to save the Realm. The Faith will remind the people it was House Targaryen that saved them and without the dragons, these seven kingdoms would fall into ruin and chaos,” Maynard continued.

“And you are sure this doctrine will be effective?” Visenya asked, more concerned for willing participants within the Faith than the smallfolk who would listen.

“It has in the Riverlands and Dorne, though my friends and I have been subtle with our preaching. The Reach will require a heavier hand and persuasive septons,” Maynard promised.

“High Septon Maynard,” Visenya said, standing from the table. The septon found his own feet but quickly came before her on bended knee. “Rise, my friend. That is not necessary. I am afraid this is where we part. I dare not risk your safety any longer than I must.”

“You need not worry, my Queen,” Maynard said as they walked toward the door he had earlier used to enter the holdfast. Ser Jonothor Darry saw their approach and waved an unseen Ser Tristan Hayford to come forth from the corridor connected to the room.

Before leaving with the knight, Maynard stopped at the door, “I hear Prince Aegon will enter the joust and Princess Daenerys means to carry her sister’s mantle. I wish them good fortune. May the Seven bless you and your family.”

“May the gods, new and old, protect you, my friend,” Visenya bid the septon farewell. After another clumsy bow, Maynard disappeared to the stables and rode off into the darkness. Moments later, Visenya fled the holdfast at Ser Jonothor’s urging to find Silverclaw and return to King’s landing before dawn.

**Princess Naerys Targaryen**

The King’s Tourney was less than a moon away and the Red Keep was brimming with more and more people every day. It wasn’t just lords and knights arriving from across the Seven Kingdoms. Their family and household came with them. Everywhere she looked, she saw the faces of strangers. The faces familiar to her were known to her from the previous King’s Tourney or a royal progress.

It was only after evenfall when the castle grounds returned to some semblance of normalcy. During the day, all the lords and knights holed up in inns or camped in the tourney grounds made their way into the Red Keep. The ambitious lords and ladies spent most of their days inside the Throne Room, either petitioning Naerys’ parents or listening to the petitions of others. Knights, skilled and unskilled alike, sought the cheers and adoration of the onlookers surrounding the training yard.

Naerys did not think she would mind the lords or knights so much if they did not bring their children with them. It seemed every girl of noble birth and a similar age tried to befriend Naerys or one of her sisters. Some seemed friendly and others untrustworthy. Remembering her courtesies and her mother’s counsel, she feigned her smiles and spoke kind words. _I have enough friends. I have my brothers and sisters. I have Sarra, Laena, Alyssa, Alayne, Melyssa…_

This night mirrored the five before it. A small feast of sorts was hosted in one of the small halls that overlooked Blackwater Bay and offered the attendants a view of the ships coming to port. Naerys paid the bay little mind, but she did hear Aeryn identify the sigils of half a dozen Houses from the Iron Islands as new arrivals. _I pray none have made their way to the keep._ The Ironborn and their rough look always frightened Naerys, but she dared not admit. _Dragons cannot be afraid._

Most of the tables within the small hall were filled with her family and the families of advisors who sat on the Small Council. The seats that remained were occupied by Houses Sarsfield, Lorch, Spicer, and Westerling. She was not certain, but Naerys felt a tension in the room that made her uncomfortable. No one said it, but everyone knew these Houses fought House Targaryen in the War of the Four Kings. Naerys escaped as soon as she thought it appropriate.

“Where are you going?” Queen Daenerys demanded, blocking her path. Her mother was wearing some of her finest jewelry around her neck and a white dress in the Meereenese fashion. Naerys wore a similar Essosi dress, sewn from indigo silk, that felt pleasant on warm summer nights. Like her mother, Naerys also had Vithi braid her hair.

“Never mind,” her mother continued before she could answer, stepping aside so the entrance to the hallway was no longer barred. “Go.”

“Thank you,” Naerys said, grateful to her mother for understanding she no longer wished to be there. _She knows where I need to be._

Before she left, Naerys felt some joy when she looked over her shoulder to see Ser Lorent Lorch and his lady wife tremble at her mother’s approach. She did not carry the same resentments and grudges some of her siblings held, but Naerys made exceptions for certain Houses. _I will never forget Amory Lorch planned to murder one of my mothers and two of my grandmothers._

“There you are! Come on, let’s go find him,” Naerys greeted her loyal companion, Jonquil. When her direwolf was born, she thought she had never seen a more beautiful creature. Jonquil’s white fur was as pure as a winter snow, reminding Naerys of Ghost and Snow. _She is still a beautiful wolf._

Knowing better than to head for Maegor’s Holdfast, Naerys made for the Red Keep’s library. It was a relief when she reached the library unimpeded by the likes of Ellyn Jast or Leonette Risley. She expected the be held up by someone given how crowded the keep had become. Instead, she only saw the Unsullied and Targaryen household guards that multiplied after the first guests arrived a moon turn ago.

“Ah, Princess, we missed your presence in the library,” said Grandmaester Pylos, greeting her with a bow between the two Unsullied on either side of the library’s entrance. Naerys still thought the sight of Pylos in his maester robes odd. He was no more than forty-five years of age, and yet he was the Grandmaester and outranked the older maesters beneath him.

“You are kind, Grandmaester, but I am afraid I would have nothing to contribute to your studies. Aemon knows far more of the histories than I,” Naerys replied. The books written by the maesters of the Citadel never interested her like they did her brother. Naerys liked to hear her brother retell the histories he had learned, but only because he was passionate about them.

“Do not let the prince’s knowledge dissuade you. I fear I will soon have little more to teach Prince Aemon, unless he was to change his mind and study to become a maester. He still knows nothing of maintaining a rookery,” Grandmaester Pylos said, reminding her of the past and her nightmares of Aemon riding off in the middle of the night for Oldtown.

“My brother’s place is at King’s Landing, not the Citadel,” Naerys spit back, only realizing the venom in her voice after seeing the Grandmaester’s face.

“My Princess, I meant nothing by…Forgive me, you wish to see your brother,” Pylos stepped aside so she could enter the library with Jonquil padding along at her feet. Naerys did not mean to frighten or even threaten Pylos, but she decided it was best to hold her tongue. _I do not need him whispering in Aemon’s ear about all those books in Oldtown or the honor of serving the Realm as a maester in some castle…far away from me._

Inside the Red Keep’s library, there were thousands of books, more than even Aemon could finish. Entire shelves were dedicated to mathematics and economics, warfare and healing, histories and politics, and astronomy and higher mysteries. The maesters and septas tried their best to encourage her to find an interest in any of the subjects. A twelve-book collection recounting the history of Old Valyria was the only thing in the library to ever truly capture her attention.

Naerys looked to her left and right, searching for Aemon. After passing the two dozen rows of shelves, her search came to its end. Aemon was seated with his back to her and his head buried in a book. Next to he book he was reading laid another six books stacked on top of one another on the long table. _He will be here all night if I do not steal him away._

Quietly, Naerys crept toward the three long tables situated at the back of the library. After her first six steps, she decided Aemon was not aware of her presence. Only Midnite, Aemon’s black direwolf, could hear her approach. The direwolf’s eyes glowed under the table so she could only see his golden eyes looking back at her. _Do not give me away, Midnite._ As soon as Naerys was behind Aemon, she threw her hands over his eyes, blinding him from the pages painted in candlelight.

“Naerys,” Aemon said, knowing it was her and no one else.

“You knew!” she said, frustrated he did not have to even think about it.

“Who else would it be?” Aemon asked with a cheerful smile as he closed the book he was reading.

“An admirer,” Naerys offered before climbing onto Aemon’s lap. She had seen Nymeria climb onto Aegon many times and he always seemed to like it. Naerys thought Aemon would like it if she did the same. After teasing his tongue with a prolonged kiss, she continued, “There are many of them. One of the Florents tried to give Aegon their favor and she knew he is betrothed to Nymeria.” _The girl was lucky our sister was not there to see it._

“I am not our brothers,” Aemon pointed out the truth. Aemon’s talents belonged in the library or the Small Council’s chamber whereas their brothers’ talents were best served on the battlefield or the battlements of some castle.

“No, you are mine and I am yours,” she agreed before leaning in for another kiss that lasted shorter than she would have liked.

“Grandmother Elia said they call me the Hidden Prince. She says I spend too much time in this place,” Aemon mused once their lips were parted. She could not tell if his tone was one of sadness or indifference.

“Does that bother you?” asked Naerys, staring into the amethyst eyes they shared.

“No,” Aemon answered with his eyes lingering on the rubied necklace he had gifted her upon their return to King’s Landing. When his eyes finally abandoned her chest to meet her own, he continued, “Does it bother you? I will never be a knight or a great warrior. What princess does not want to marry a warrior?”

“This one,” Naerys swore with all her heart, caressing Aemon’s cheek with her thumb, admiring his comely looks. “And you are wrong. You will be a dragonrider. Dragonriders are warriors.”

“One has to have a dragon first, to become a dragonrider,” Aemon said to her confusion.

“Have you forgotten your egg already?” Naerys asked, wondering just what went on inside her brother’s mind. Hardly an hour passed without Naerys remembering her dragon egg and thinking of the day a little dragon would hatch. She would have the most beautiful dragon with violet scales to match her eyes as Aemon had promised. _Does he think his will turn to stone? No, I should not even ask it. The gods would be cruel to take a dragon from this world._

“I haven’t forgotten, it’s just…not all dragon eggs hatch. There is a book, _Dragons and Dragon_ …,” Aemon started until Naerys had heard enough. She was forced to silence her brother with a gentle finger placed over his lips.

“Ours will,” Naerys promised, sure in her belief there was a reason her mother and father rose from the flames of Vaes Dothrak with twelve dragon hatchlings. “The dragons were lost to this world, Aemon. They were gone forever, until they were not. Why would they return only to disappear again? Do not tell me of some book written by a maester in the Citadel. What do they know of dragons? We are the blood of Old Valyria. We were meant to have them. You said it yourself when you handed me my egg.”

“I pray you are right,” Aemon said as she fisted his grey doublet. Naerys couldn’t help herself and stole another kiss while slowly rolling her hips against his. She always found a certain feeling of satisfaction when she felt his hard member pressing against her core. Sometimes, she felt tempted to ask Aemon for more but never acted on such impulses.

“Those books, what are they about?” Naerys asked, nodding her head to the tower of books that stood taller than a foot.

“One is about the Old Empire of Ghis and another is about the Kingdom of Sarnor. Grandmaester Pylos and I spent most of our time discussing the red one, there, _A History of the Rhoynish Wars_. The Second Spice War…Prince Garin, the Great they called him, led a host of two hundred fifty thousand men to conquer Selhorys, Valysar, and Volon Therys. He did what he thought was best for his people, at least that is what Maester…Valthon wrote in his book,” Aemon answered.

“A conqueror,” Naerys said, pitying Prince Garin the Great. Naerys could not remember this prince, for there were so many in the histories of the Rhoynar. _Why do I not remember his name? Everyone knows of Princess Nymeria and her ten thousand ships. Why not Garin?_

“For a time,” Aemon replied with a sad look about his face. “Prince Garin led his people to their doom. His victories were too great for Valyria to ignore. He was a threat, making the Rhoynar a threat. The dragonlords led their armies and three hundred dragons against his host. You know the rest.”

_That is why. Garin’s victories were his people’s doom. And three hundred dragons…What do three hundred dragons look like? Will our family ever grow so large and have so many? Will there ever be a civilization like Old Valyria again?_

“And this one?” Naerys asked, looking over her shoulder to the book Aemon was reading before she interrupted his studies.

“That one is new. You would find it boring,” Aemon assured her.

“What is it about?” she asked, interested to know if it was about the War of the Four Kings or the Great War. It was neither.

“The economies of Essos and Westeros and how they were affected after slavery was outlawed in the east,” Aemon told her. _You are right, it is boring, but good, I suppose._

“And?” she inquired, indulging Aemon. She could see the book did interest him.

“Westeros has seen little change. Some trade goods are more expensive now, but the maester who wrote it said there is some disagreement over the cause. In Essos, the slavers lost most of their incomes, rightly so. The Iron Bank suffered more than most, but I suppose that does not matter since it is no more. Most of the pages confirm what I have learned at Small Council meetings. Magisters, former archons, brothel owners, sea captains, and more have all paid some price for this new world,” Aemon informed Naerys without the details she was sure he omitted.

“They must hate us,” Naerys said, knowing there was little honor when it came to matters of gold and silver.

“Some, but they have little to no power. With time, they will realize you do not need slaves to be rich. Westeros has not seen slavery for thousands of years and many Houses are richer than the wealthiest magisters,” Aemon said before his fingers caressed her neck. “Sorry, you did not come here to listen to me talk about the economies of the Realm. We can go to the godswood or…”

“I’d rather stay here, with you, where no one will find us,” Naerys decided. Everywhere but the Red Keep’s library felt overwhelmed with the visiting lords and ladies. Even the godswood was not safe from their guests. Naerys had seen two of the Blackwood sisters praying to the old gods the day before.

Naerys had not realized she had fallen asleep until the morning sun warmed her skin and stirred her from the deep slumber that had overcome her. When she woke, her eyes were greeted with the pleasant sight of a green godswood below and a blue sea beyond. She thought she had made it to her bedchambers, but remember soon enough the godswood did not lie beneath her bedchambers and her bed was not so close to a glass window.

Before she could collect herself and leave the library, Naerys felt Aemon’s arms holding her against his chest. The rise and fall of his chest reminded her of the night before and how they ended up sleeping on the soft window seat. When she peered at the floor beneath their window, she found Midnite and Jonquil sleeping at their feet.

After Naerys had whisked Aemon from his books and studies, they shared the rest of their night together in their favorite corner of the library. The hours that passed were filled with kisses, promises of devotion, and dreaming of the life they could share. All of it felt perfect. They even spoke High Valyrian until they could no longer stay awake. Ever since they were little children, Naerys preferred speaking their mother tongue and Aemon did the same.

With a slow and careful twist, Naerys looked upon her brother’s face again. Aemon looked peaceful and handsome and wise in his sleep. She leaned forward to kiss his inviting lips until she held herself back. _No, I will let him have his sleep._

The longer she stared and admired, Naerys wondered if this was what it was like for Senya or Dany or Nymeria. This was the first time she had woken to find herself held in her brother’s arms. It felt safe and it felt right. Even as she thought about waking up in his bed or her own without their clothes, she felt herself getting wet. _I shouldn’t welcome such thoughts._

Aemon did not think himself a warrior, but Naerys thought she was staring at a dragonlord. He looked like what she thought a dragonlord may look like. He possessed a strong jaw, comely cheekbones, full lips, and a beautiful nose. After her eyes devoured every inch of his face, Naerys decided there was not a part of him she did not love.

It was more than just Aemon’s features that made Naerys believe in her brother. Everyone seemed to forget his bravery in the training yard, but she did not. He was quick to avoid blows and strong in his strikes. Her father even said Aemon would make a fine swordsman and Naerys did not know him to be wrong when it came to matters of warfare. _You could be a dragonlord, brother, should it be required of you. I know it. I know it in my heart._

“Did I wake you?” Aemon asked in a panic when his eyes fluttered open. His reaction compelled her to giggle. “What? What did I say?”

“It is I who woke you and you are concerned for me?” Naerys replied before finding her way to his lips.

“I can’t help it,” Aemon admitted with a sheepish grin. “I did not mean for us to fall asleep here. It is not my first time, but with you…I should have…”

“I am glad you didn’t,” Naerys told her brother, knowing he felt honor demanded he return her to her chambers. Part of her wanted to roll her eyes and another part found his concern endearing. What mattered most to Naerys was Aemon loved her and he did not want unkind words to be spoken of her. “Do not fret, Aemon. We fell asleep in the library. No one will notice.”

“If they do…,” Aemon worried more than he should.

“There are worse shames. Even if such a thing were true and you took my maidenhead, what is the worst that could happen? We would be forced to wed? I rather like the sound of such a punishment,” Naerys whispered before kissing Aemon again.

“I love you,” he whispered, staring at her the same way he had when they first kissed. But Naerys knew that wasn’t true. He had always looked at her like she was the most precious thing in the world.

“And I love you,” Naerys said, forgetting all the poetic words she had saved for Aemon.

Naerys knew they needed to return to their own separate chambers and ready themselves for the day, but she could not leave. Her body was immovable in her brother’s arms. She wanted to stay like they were, lying together in the window seat of their corner of the Red Keep’s library, forever. Instead of taking her leave, Naerys sunk further in Aemon’s embrace, nuzzling her face into his neck.

“Why don’t we stay here, like this, forever?” Naerys whispered against the slow rise and fall of her brother’s chest.

“We can’t,” Aemon replied with an amused chuckle.

“We can. You have all your books and I have you,” she protested with a smirk on her lips.

“Naerys,” Aemon whispered again, this time lifting her chin with his finger so she would look into his eyes. The sound of her name on his lips did something to her. Her heart fluttered and she was sure she was even wetter for him. “All I need is you, not these books or any library. You are more important to me than anything else in this world. If you command it, I will never pick up another book again.”

“Don’t be foolish,” she giggled before nuzzling into his warmth again. It was a silly promise, but she understood what he meant and she loved him all the more for it, if that were possible. “I will never ask absurd demonstrations of love from you. Though…I will ask you to be with me during the King’s Tourney. I know you hate it, but I want you there with me. I want you courting me. I do not want to share dances and songs with others, only you. You do not have to be with me every…”

“I will be with you, at every joust, every melee, every race, every feast, all of it,” Aemon promised her everything she wanted from him. Naerys clung to him even stronger, hoping her affection spoke more than words. She was grateful he would take part in all of it, just for her, no matter how much he disliked the pageantry of a tourney. _I must find a way to thank him._

**Prince Aegon Targaryen**

It seemed there was nowhere to escape inside the Red Keep. Every day saw the arrival of a dozen or more lords and knights. All of them visited the Red Keep and the most important of them were given quarters for the entirety of the King’s Tourney. Members of the Great Houses, the Crownlands, and the strongest Targaryen loyalists had nearly filled Maegor’s Holdfast. The rest were granted rooms inside the Tower of the Hand, the Maidenvault, and the other minor keeps within the red walls.

Aegon could not be sure, but he guessed there were thousands of lords, ladies, knights, and their retainers inside the Red Keep at any given time. Most were eager to petition his parents in the Throne Room and the more persistent sought a private audience with the King and Queens. The lords and knights who did not have the patience to take their turn in Throne Room cornered heralds, captains of the household guard, Small Council advisors, and other high lords alike. Princes were no exception.

Four days past, Aegon found himself unfortunate enough to have crossed paths with Ser Boros Hawick. The knight was the son of Lord Barron Hawick, who ruled a small keep near Saltpans. Ser Boros complimented Aegon’s swordsmanship and vowed he had placed twenty gold dragons on him to win the joust. Aegon doubted the truth of the man’s wager and thought less of his kind words. He had heard Ser Boros praise Eddard with similar compliments in an attempt to seek an audience with their father. Like Eddard, Aegon made no promise and told the knight to speak with the heralds inside the Throne Room.

The sons of the high lords were worse than the high lords themselves. Each of them wanted to spar with Aegon or one of his brothers. In order to avoid the clutter and chaos of the training yards in the baileys, Aegon joined his brothers in the small arena within the royal gardens. Their sanctuary provided three days of uninterrupted training before Elbert Piper, a grandson of Lord Clement Piper, stumbled upon them.

Just as it was the day before, the ascending rows of the semi-circular arena were half-filled with highborn boys and girls. Some were as young as Aegon’s cousin, Steffon Baratheon, and others were older than his distant cousin, Corlys Velaryon. Aegon sat between Daeron and their little cousin, Orys, watching as their brothers sparred with foes from across the Seven Kingdoms.

“Why doesn’t Rhaegar finish him?” asked a frustrated Daeron. Rhaegar was on the defense, parrying wild, uncontrolled blows from Willem Hunter. Willem was barely a year younger than Aegon, but one would not know it from his abilities with a sword. The boy from Longbow Hall was clumsy and lacked sure footing. _Does Lord Gilwood not have a Master at Arms?_

“Because the fight is already won,” Aegon answered as Rhaegar deflected one blow after another. Even Ser Jonothor Darry had taken his eyes off the spar, turning his attention to Eddard and Jon’s duel. Aegon could see his brothers circling one another before their blunted steel met again. Knowing their spar would last for some time, Aegon turned his eyes back to Rhaegar and the brave, but clumsy Willem Hunter. “And besides, there are many watching.”

“He does not want to give away all his attacks and defenses,” Daeron said, understanding some of Rhaegar’s reasons. “Is that why Father was angry with you at Cornfield?”

“I am surprised you remember that,” Aegon replied, turning to his little brother. Aegon remembered that night well. He could still recall everything about House Swyft’s keep and the dark hallway leading to the guest chambers his parents were granted. It was the angriest he had ever seen his father. “But, no, that is not why Father was angry with me. He was angered for the other reasons Rhaegar does not put Willem in the dirt. House Swyft swore an oath of fealty to our House. They are a part of the Realm and they are our bannermen. I knew I could beat Myles Swyft, but I went too far. I took it too far and embarrassed him. Father was right. We weren’t on the battlefield. We were in the training yard, sparring. The training yard is where you fight your friends, not your enemies. Do you understand?”

“I think so,” Daeron replied before Willem Hunter lost his grip on the wooden practice sword. Unarmed, the son of Longbow Hall received a sure knock to the ground. Aegon respected Willem when he did not complain or demand another match. “Rhaegar should have fought a better foe.”

_No, he fought the right one._ Aegon noticed what few around them had. Rhaegar had gained a new friend and ally when he helped the future Lord of Longbow Hall to his feet. The act reminded Aegon of his own failings. Aegon earned his friends over cups of ale and wine and acts of mischief. Even after the scolding he received at Cornfield, Aegon knew he could still take things too far with others in the training yard and allow his competitive nature to cloud his judgement.

“Better to make a friend and ally than a foe,” Aegon countered, hoping his brother was too young to remind himself of his own faults. Daeron did not care to argue with him, instead turning his gaze to Jon and Eddard’s spar.

Aegon was given little time to observe his brothers’ dance of steel before White Fang raised his head and growled at something behind them. It was a boy no older than sixteen who garnered the direwolf’s attention. Aegon found himself disliking the stranger at a first glance. He walked arrogantly and seemed too confident in himself.

“Who is this?” Aegon asked himself as the stranger descended the upper steps of the arena. Aegon did not miss the stranger’s eyes lingering on his sisters. Most of the Targaryen princesses were seated underneath makeshift pavilions behind the uppermost row. Dozens of highborn girls were with them, either sipping on Dornish red, whispering about things girls whispered about, or watching Aegon’s brothers spar. There was a chance this stranger admired another, but Aegon was sure his eyes were drinking in the sight of one of his sisters.

“That’s Garon Penrose!” Orys Baratheon proudly declared, not knowing Aegon did not mean for him to know. He knew his little cousin was not wrong when he noticed the small, crossed white quills on the collar of Garon’s russet doublet. Some of the girls sitting near the steps did not share Aegon’s dislike, giggling to themselves as Garon passed. “His father and uncles are my grandfather’s bannermen. I have seen him at Storms End dozens of times. His brother is Ser Harys.”

“Prince Aegon,” Garon Penrose introduced himself with a subtle bow when he reached the final steps. “I hear you are entering the lists. I should warn you, this is my brother’s tourney. This isn’t a tourney for green boys and inexperienced riders. Accidents do happen in the joust. Some fall on their horse and find themselves a cripple. Others, I should not say it… A prince should wait until next year’s King’s Tourney, when it is safe.” _Green boy? And you threaten me?_

“Aegon will knock your brother out of his saddle!” Daeron proclaimed, showing his quick temper. The nearest Unsullied who stood at their posts around the fighting pit took notice and turned with their spears in hand. Aegon waved them off before the spears were lowered.

“Doubtful, my little prince,” Garon said with an unpleasant grin on his face.

“I’ll see Ser Harys in the tilts,” Aegon promised while he tried his best to sound calm and emotionless. It is what his father would do or so he thought.

“So you will,” Garon said before continuing his march to the middle of the fighting pit. Eddard and Jon were finished with their spar, walking past Garon Penrose to take the seats behind Aegon. “Prince Rhaegar!”

“Yes?” Rhaegar answered after giving Willem Hunter what looked to be advice on defending side strikes.

“I looked for you in the training yards, but you were nowhere to be found. You promised we would spar or do you call me a liar?” Garon Penrose asked, approaching Rhaegar with his hand on the grip of a sword at his belt. _What have we done to offend him?_

“I made the promise. I did not mean to break it, if that is what you think,” Rhaegar replied, seemingly tired with Garon’s presence as much as Aegon was.

“A blunted sword? My sister fights with blunted steel,” Garon mocked Rhaegar, laughing at the practice sword in his hand. As if he intended to enrage Aegon even more, Garon unsheathed his castle forged steel, pointing it at Rhaegar. “Surely a Crown Prince has a real sword.”

“Sheath your blade, unless you wish to lose your head!” Ser Jonothor bellowed, coming to stand between Rhaegar and Garon. The Kingsguard was old, but even Garon Penrose had enough sense to return his steel to the scabbard on his hip. Aegon found himself gripping his own sword, ready to join his brother if Garon had moved to attack.

“Call off your dog, Prince Rhaegar, and tell him to fetch me a practice sword,” Garon replied, casting his sword belt aside.

“You can fetch one yourself,” Rhaegar said, pointing to the collection of practice weapons and armor aligned against the wall that separated the spectators and the fighters. Silence fell over the arena as Garon Penrose cursed under his breath and went to find himself a blunted sword. When Aegon looked over his shoulder to see his sisters’ reaction, he found Arya standing underneath her pavilion between Senya and Dany. _Penrose should hold his tongue before Arya sticks him with her sword._

“This fool thinks he can win,” Jon whispered, compelling Aegon to return his eyes to Garon Penrose. With a practice sword in hand, he came to stand opposite Rhaegar in the middle of the circular pit.

“What did Rhaegar do to offend him?” Eddard asked.

“Nothing. Perhaps, he just hates Targaryens,” Jon guessed as well as Aegon could. _Could it be because I have entered the tourney? Does he think we will fix the tourney in my favor?_

“Or perhaps he is just an ass,” Nymeria said, taking a seat beside Eddard. Orys found that amusing, chuckling to himself while Daeron stared intently at the impending spar. Aegon spared a quick glance for his love, silently telling her he agreed with her assessment of Garon Penrose.

“He doesn’t stand right,” Daeron said before Garon approached Rhaegar with his sword held at his side. “And his attack is all wrong.”

Daeron was not allowed another moment to speak. Garon silenced him with the wild swing of his sword at Rhaegar’s head. Swing after swing, Garon’s sword missed as Rhaegar ducked and sidestepped every coming blow. It was not until the tenth strike that Rhaegar parried his opponent’s steel, filling the arena with the song of ringing steel.

Rhaegar let Garon Penrose push his attack wherever he wished, carefully stepping backward, but never allowing himself to be cornered. Penrose was strong, but he was impatient and allowed his anger to influence his movements. His strikes were wild and did not seem to have any purpose other than to overwhelm Rhaegar with sheer strength. _He will tire soon. Fool._

“I thought Rhaegar was good,” Orys said, not understanding Rhaegar was not even trying to win yet.

“He is, watch,” Aegon assured his little cousin with a whisper only he could hear. _Before long, Garon will not be able to hold his own sword._

The spar went from one side of the pit to another. Garon was embarrassing himself, mocking Rhaegar’s swordsmanship and strength. He was the only one who did not know Rhaegar was bored with this spar, ready to claim victory at the time of his choosing. It would be soon enough as Penrose began to slow. _This is it._

Just when Rhaegar was about to be cornered against the low-standing wall that separated the pit from the first row of onlookers, Rhaegar delivered his first real blow. Garon cursed when Rhaegar’s blade struck true against the boiled leather protecting his shoulder. Jon and Eddard let out small laughs when they saw Garon fall to the ground, kicking up a cloud of dirt.

Cursing to himself, Garon Penrose jolted to his feet and ran towards Rhaegar in a blind rage. Aegon looked forward to Garon’s impending defeat as Rhaegar seemed unfazed, waiting for his attacker to strike. A simple sidestep allowed Rhaegar to miss Garon’s first attack, earning the laughter of the arena after Penrose swung his sword at empty air.

This only seemed to fill Garon Penrose with more anger. Rhaegar stood at the center of the pit with his sword held high, ready to parry the next attack. This time, Aegon’s brother did not avoid the clash. Steel met steel and Garon’s strikes became more erratic until they weren’t.

“What is he doing?” Jon sounded angered as he saw what Aegon saw. Garon was aiming for Rhaegar’s head in a simple sparring match and neither of them wore helms, assuming there was honor to be had. After the fifth swing at Rhaegar’s head, Aegon had seen enough and so had Ser Jonothor Darry. _Fuck this._

Determined to beat the knight of the Kingsguard, Aegon sprung to his feet and leapt over the wall between himself and the pit. He thought he heard Nymeria call his name, but he could not be sure. He was not going to let Rhaegar play the honorable and merciful prince while Garon Penrose tried to crack his skull.

Garon’s tenth try for Rhaegar’s head never came when Aegon twisted his wrist while the practice sword was held high. Before the sword clattered to the ground, Aegon put one foot in front of Garon’s and gave him a strong shove to the back. The foe fell to the ground with a thud and much to Rhaegar’s displeasure.

“Your lord father will hear of this,” Ser Jonothor warned the bloodied Garon Penrose as he rolled over in the dirt. Aegon was glad to see he had broken the boy’s nose.

“I did not need the help. He was never going to hit me,” Rhaegar told him.

“That does not matter. He fought without honor,” Aegon argued, expecting Rhaegar, more than anyone to understand that. Their father had taught them about honor and chivalry and Rhaegar was the best of them.

“Then it was good practice. Father always said there is no honor on the battlefield,” Rhaegar replied as they left a hurt Garon Penrose laying on the ground behind them. “Now who is this?”, Rhaegar continued as a man, no more than six or seven years older than themselves, descended the final steps leading into the pit. _Ser Harys Penrose._

“That is not necessary, Prince Aegon,” Ser Harys said, noticing Aegon had rested his hand on the grip of the sword sheathed on his hip. The Unsullied permitted the knight to come forth, only after Rhaegar motioned for them to do so.

“Bastard! I’ll have your…,” Garon yelled until his brother cut him off.

“You embarrass yourself, little brother. And you dishonor our House and our father’s good name. Now shut your mouth and go find a maester or someone who can stop the bleeding,” Harys surprised Aegon with his forceful dismissal of Garon. When his brother only stood there and stared at them with disgust, Harys continued, “Go on, before I break your skull, as Prince Rhaegar should have done. Go!”

Aegon could see it in Garon’s brown eyes as he walked by, peering at them with pure hatred. He had made an enemy this day. He wished that were not so, but he accepted it. The only alternative was to allow Garon Penrose to continue with his bloodthirsty swings and risk letting Rhaegar catch an unlucky blow to the head.

“Forgive my brother, if you can find it in your hearts to be merciful. And I must warn you, he will not forget this, Prince Aegon. He is as stubborn as he is stupid. I would tell him to beg for your forgiveness, but I fear he would only bring more shame to our House with his words and actions,” Ser Harys surprised them again, coming to stand before Aegon and Rhaegar. He was taller and stronger than both of them.

Harys looked like a knight of summer, riding from tourney to tourney. His gold doublet was finely woven and his black riding boots were well-polished. Aegon was sure most of the girls thought him handsome, judging by the way some of them looked at his short, brown hair and dark emerald eyes. But there was also something else. Aegon could not reason why, but he sensed Ser Harys was a true knight who could prove himself on the battlefield.

“All is forgiven, Ser Harys,” Rhaegar replied too quickly for Aegon’s liking.

“If I hear him call my sister a bastard, I will do more than break his nose,” Aegon swore, knowing anyone who thought him a bastard also thought the same of Nymeria. _I should have taken his hand with my sword._

“I would not fault you, my Prince. I would kill any man who calls my sister bastard,” Harys replied before looking over his shoulder as if to make sure his brother had left. “They say you are good with the lance, Prince Aegon…that you never miss your mark.”

“And they say you have won have a hundred tourneys,” Aegon returned a compliment for the knight after deciding Ser Harys not to be false. He knew King’s Landing was filled with many good liars and some great ones. _If he is a liar, he is one of the great ones._

“I am sure we will face each other before the tourney is done,” Harys replied.

“I wish you good fortune,” Aegon said, hoping he would get his chance to unseat the accomplished champion of countless tourneys from Oldtown to Snakewood. With a nod, Ser Harys Penrose took his leave and went after his brother.

“I shouldn’t be here,” Nymeria whispered against his chest. He knew she did not mean it. Even if he asked her to leave, she would still cling to his warmth as she did now. Both of them laid in his bed, as naked as their first nameday, covered in a sheen of sweat. Aegon had yet to take her maidenhead, but they had done everything else one could imagine.

“You should,” Aegon corrected her, knowing it to be true. Nymeria was his sister and would be his wife. _You have always belonged here, with me._

“What did Harys Penrose say to you? I feared you would do something rash,” Nymeria asked while her fingers traced circles over his skin.

“Me, doing something rash?” Aegon replied.

“Aye, you,” Nymeria laughed before kissing him again. Their legs were even more entangled than they had been before and she seemed to like it just as much as him.

“He surprised me…He apologized for his brother and said he expected to ride against me in the tourney. He was…honorable. I guess I thought after Garon, he would be…I don’t know,” Aegon said, still second guessing himself over his assessment of Ser Harys Penrose.

“Not everyone who isn’t us is an enemy,” Nymeria told him after leaving a small peck on his chest.

“I made an enemy in his brother,” Aegon admitted.

“A good enemy to have, loud and stupid,” Nymeria tried to ease his troubled thoughts.

“I suppose,” he said, deciding it did not do any good to worry over potential acts of revenge from Garon Penrose.

“I have good news,” Nymeria teased him. He took his eyes off the ceiling painted by candlelight to look into Nymeria’s dark, ethereal eyes. _She is more beautiful than anything in this world._ “The Martells and Tyrells will arrive in two days. Mother says we are to meet them outside the King’s Gate and escort them through the city.”

“That is good news,” Aegon agreed. _How long has it been since we have seen them? Two years? More?_

“And there is more. The Starks and Arryns will be here in a sennight,” Nymeria revealed more welcome news.

“Father will be happy. I think he still misses the North,” Aegon added. Whenever his father spoke of the North, it was always with a fondness he did not share for the other kingdoms.

“I miss the snow and the Wolfswood…Do you miss it?” Nymeria asked.

“I do not miss it. I miss Winterfell and its hot springs, but the rest…it is too cold,” Aegon confessed, feeling somehow lesser. If the blood of the First Men truly ran through his veins, he did not feel it.

“The cold shouldn’t frighten you,” Nymeria whispered in his ear before biting it and straddling his hips. “You will always be warm, with me.”

Nothing felt better to Aegon than the feeling of Nymeria’s wet cunt slowly grinding against his cock. He was hard again for her and all he could do was flip her over so he was on top. If he allowed her to continue with her hips, Aegon was not sure he could resist fucking her there, in his bed. _We promised we would wait._

“What are you doing?” Nymeria panted as she laid on her back with her dark brown hair splayed across his sheets.

“I want to kiss you down there, before you push me into doing something…rash,” Aegon said, coaxing Nymeria’s beautiful laughter from her lips. After greedily kneading both of her breasts, Aegon set out on his southward journey and threw the sheets up to cover them both. Inch by inch, he left a trail of kisses down her smooth skin until he reached her folds. Aegon was proud to see she was still wet for him, but did not dwell on the thought. The moment her fingers fisted his hair and her thighs pressed against his face, his tongue dove between her folds. _I will make her cum until dawn._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Targaryens are beginning to make their moves against Oldtown. I do not think I did Naerys' character justice with her POV. I think I could have wrote more for her character and not just focus on her relationship with Aemon. (Will try to do better in a future chapter) I also hope the Targs/Garon did not seem too much. Just wanted to add a Joffrey-lite character that thinks too highly of himself. 
> 
> Next chapter will have Robb Stark arriving in KL, an Ashara Dayne POV, & a few more undecided POVs. Please leave any questions, critiques, advice, etc. in the comments below. Feel free to request any POVs or specific characters you want to learn more about.


	10. Calm Before the Storm

**Lord Robb Stark**

King’s Landing was not as he left it. There were no plumes of undying smoke or battlements scarred by the touch of dragonfire or crimson lion banners billowing in the wind only to be torn down by his army. The city looked peaceful, even beautiful, under a morning sun that painted the Red Keep’s stones a brighter red than he remembered. The ruined stretches of wall looked repaired and he did not miss the black banners flying proudly over the Dragon Gate and every tower that stood along the city walls.

Robb Stark stood alone, holding the reins to his horse with Grey Wind serving as his protector. His men were not far behind, still guarding his family and the column of men, horses, wayns, and wheelhouses making its way down the Kingsroad. He had not stopped for long, but Robb still looked over his shoulder toward the bend in the road. There was nothing but dirt, grass, and the trees providing shade to travelers riding up and down the road.

A low growl from Grey Wind returned his attention to the city and the sight of Rhaenys’ Hill. Three dragons were emerging from the ruins of the Dragonpit, taking flight over the city. He was sure one was his cousin Visenya’s dragon, with its silver scales glimmering in the sunlight. Another looked to be a dark shade of violet and the other a green-scaled beast. They did not make a sound from where he stood, but the dragons were frightening beasts that still stirred a sense of unease within Robb.

“I’ve won!” Robb heard his second son, Brynden, yell from the road. He knew who it was when he heard the steady sound of hooves beating into the dirt. Ned and Brynden had raced their horses up and down the Kingsroad two dozen times before they even reached Moat Cailin. Their games did not stop after they crossed the Neck.

“Look! It’s King’s Landing,” Ned yelled, pointing to the city when Robb turned around to see his sons pull their horses to a halt. Both his sons inherited his black hair, which they kept short. Neither had much of their mother in their features, but Brynden did inherit her sea-blue eyes. Leaping from his saddle, Ned continued, “It looks bigger than you said. It’s five times larger than White Harbor.”

“More,” Robb assured his son, realizing he had never spoken of King’s Landing in terms his sons would understand. As Ned came to stand to his right, next to Grey Wind, he noticed his son resting his hand on his new sword. Ned was now thirteen and old enough to carry a sword. With all the training he had received from himself and Winterfell’s Master at Arms, Robb trusted his son could fight off any bandits brave enough to attack them on the road, though such a thing was unlikely to occur.

“You can take your hand off that sword. No one is going to take it from you and we are safe. These lands are well protected and the bandits are afraid of the dragons, or so the innkeeper at Brindlewood said,” Robb said. Ned listened and let his hand fall to his side.

“Is that the Dragon Gate, where you fought in the battle?” Brynden asked, pulling his courser along to stand beside his brother, who he followed everywhere. Where Ned went, so did Brynden. When Ned first road a pony, his little brother demanded he be allowed to do the same. When he was denied, he persisted and snuck his way to the Winterfell stables at night and saddled a pony at the age of five. Robb was grateful to the old gods that night for protecting his son from harm.

“It is,” Robb answered his son as he remembered Visenya’s dragons turn the men guarding those walls into burning corpses. _Was it a battle? The siege was more slaughter than battle._ Robb did not speak his thoughts, deciding he would save the telling of the hard truths of war for another day. Pointing to the east, he continued, “And there is the Iron Gate, where your uncle led the knights of the Vale into King’s Landing. And there, the Old Gate is where the Blackfish led the riverlords into battle.”

“Where are the tourney grounds? Uncle Harrold said there would be thousands of tents and a sea of banners. I do not see any,” Brynden asked, squinting his eyes at the fields surrounding the city. Even from their place atop one of the many hills outside King’s Landing, it was not possible to see the grounds near the Blackwater Rush.

“To the south, along the river. You cannot see it from here, but it is there,” Robb promised with his fingered pointed where he knew the tourney grounds stood.

“Do you think Brandon and Valarr will want to spar? In their letters, they said they train with the Kingsguard…with the Sword of the Morning and Uncle Garlan,” Ned asked. His son had seen Ser Arthur Dayne and Ser Garlan Tyrell spar in the Winterfell training yard when the Targaryens rode north with their royal progress. Ned still thought the display put on by two legendary knights was the greatest thing he had ever seen. The idea of training with his Targaryen cousins and possibly learning from knights of the Kingsguard was something he spoke of often on the Kingsroad.

“On the morrow, my son. This will be a long day and I am sure your cousins will have duties that require their attention,” Robb warned Ned, knowing it was not even a guarantee his son would get his wish on the morrow. Robb was never a prince, but he still recalled Jon’s tales of King’s Landing all those years ago. He was sure a Prince of House Targaryen had much to attend to with the entire Seven Kingdoms descending upon the city for the King’s Tourney.

“Where are your wolves?” Robb asked when he did not see the two grey direwolves padding behind his sons. The direwolves were only six months old, but already close to the size of a normal wolf. Grey Wind had found another direwolf in the Wolfswood and the Stark children’s direwolves were his litter. Their mother had stayed close to the wheelhouse and the pups the girls had chosen.

“Here they come,” Ned announced the arrival of the direwolves running down the Kingsroad ahead of the train that followed. Behind the wolves came a pair of Winterfell men bearing the sigil of House Stark on their banners. After them came more Stark men and a dozen men at arms carrying the blue banners of House Arryn.

“Go find your mother and tell her we are an hour’s ride from the Dragon Gate,” Robb told his sons. Both Ned and Brynden nodded their heads and hurried into their saddles. He watched them ride hard down the Kingsroad from whence they came in search of the wheelhouses that carried the highborn ladies who rode with them. The direwolf pups chased after Robb’s sons as best they could. Soon enough, they would be faster than the coursers over a short distance and become fierce hunters like Grey Wind.

With his sons gone, Robb returned his gaze to King’s Landing, finding more dragons dancing across the sky. His eyes tracked the winged beasts as he considered the turmoil in the south and how it may affect the North. Robb wondered if the conflict with the Faith could turn to chaos and all-out war. If it came to war, he was more than prepared to call his banners and support House Targaryen. _If northmen are needed, something has gone terribly wrong. These dragons could burn a hundred armies and more._

The longer Robb’s thoughts dwelled on the South and their seven gods, he wondered if his cousin had changed. Six years had passed since he last saw his cousin and King, but the raven scrolls told him Jon was still the same man he befriended in their childhood. Jon was a good and honorable King, who imposed reasonable decrees, enacted fair laws, and listened to the pleas of his lords. The man who sat the Iron Throne was more than his friend and cousin. He was his brother, but Robb remembered Winterfell laid more than a thousand miles from King’s Landing. He did not truly know everything of Jon’s rule.

_He returned to Westeros a conqueror and liberator, a breaker of chains. He brought justice to Cersei Lannister and the westermen. He saved the North and the rest of the Realm. Is he more than a just ruler and conqueror? Has he become a player of the game? He must have to have kept the peace this long. Will he see the traitors I did not?_

Robb took a brief moment to consider how he misjudged Roose Bolton and underestimated the dishonorable Walder Frey. Without the Celtigars and Queen Rhaella’s spies, he would have lost everything because he was blind to the treachery of those close to him. He would have lost Margaery, Ned, his mother, his most loyal bannermen, the North, and more. Like so many times before, Robb second guessed his abilities as the Lord of Winterfell and asked himself if he had truly learned from his mistakes. It was Margaery who saved him from his thoughts.

Flanked on either side by Stark men at arms, wearing their simple half-helms, chainmail, muddied boots, and studded leather jerkins, Margaery rode forth on her white palfrey. It was a welcome sight. Robb had not seen her since they broke camp and he rode ahead with the outriders. _I will tear that dress off her once we find our chambers._

Margaery was just as beautiful as the day he first met her at Riverrun. The years that had passed had been kind to her and yet she was a different woman than the one he had married. Lady Margaery Tyrell was the southern beauty who preferred southern dresses and the endless luxuries of Highgarden. Lady Margaery Stark was still a great beauty, but she was now a northern lady, preferring more conservative dresses to keep herself warm and protected during winter and summer alike.

“I grew bored with that damned wheelhouse. I thought it best I arrive at court with a sane mind and my wits about me,” Margaery answered Robb’s question before he could ask it. With one of his men taking the reins of his horse, Robb stepped forth to assist Margaery from her saddle. He wanted her company and guessed she needed the brief reprieve before the final leg of their journey that was sure to be slow and unpleasant through the crowded streets of King’s Landing.

“Was my sister so terrible, you needed to flee?” Robb whispered in his lady wife’s ear after she came to stand beside him, sharing the view of the city below. Despite the long road south, Robb did not miss the care Margaery took with herself. Her hair and skin smelled like the flowers he imagined growing in the fields surrounding Highgarden.

“No!” Margaery protested with a pleasant laugh and the threatening dig of her nails into his arm. “I like your sister. In a different life, I think we would have been great friends…. Well, I do consider us friends, but she is the Lady of the Eyrie and I, the Lady of Winterfell. Raven scrolls can only say so much. Perhaps, after this tourney, we will be the best of friends.”

“You’re not wearing one of your southern dresses,” Robb observed her grey and blue dress. It was a simple dress cut in the northern fashion, leaving neither her chest nor arms bare. The colors of her dress represented her northern marriage, but there were small roses sewn on her wrists and around the neckline.

“You want to see me in one of my southern dresses. Or mayhaps, you want to see me without anything on at all,” Margaery teased him with her sultry voice and fluttering eyes. “No, I left my old dresses with the rest of my wardrobe. Sansa said my dresses would do fine, but she was being kind. I have seen hers and my old ones will not do. I do not want the ladies at court to laugh at me. And besides, I am married to the Lord of Winterfell. I should look the part of a northern lady.”

“You are a northern lady,” Robb affirmed. The ladies of the northern Houses adored Margaery and Robb never met a lord she could disarm with her charm. Whether it was in the Great Hall of Winterfell or the Merman’s Court at White Harbor or the wooden halls of Deepwood Motte, Margaery won the love of the North and befriended the ladies of the noble Houses.

“That is kind of you to say,” Margaery replied with a pained smile.

“I say it because it is true. You are my wife and the mother of my children, four northern children,” Robb promised while his hands found hers.

“Sometimes, I wonder if I have lost my talent for telling a truth from a lie. Sometimes, I think they say their kind words and whisper about the dim southerner when she is gone,” Margaery confessed her fear. Robb could see the doubt in her blue eyes until she returned her gaze to the dragons circling Rhaenys’ Hill.

“That isn’t true. Lord Wyman’s granddaughters may dislike you, but I know they would never call you dim. You are cleverer than them all and they know it, my wife,” Robb said before leaving a kiss on her temple. “And besides, the North remembers.”

“Remembers what?” she laughed. Margaery always laughed at the words, beliefs, and superstitions of the North she found strange or amusing.

“It remembers the Lady of Winterfell seeing her people fed through three years of winter,” Robb alluded to the shipments of wheat, barley, apples, and more sent North so his people would not starve. It was Margaery who arranged Redwyne ships to ferry food north along the Sunset Sea to Flint’s Finger, the Stoney Shore, Bear Island, and Westwatch-by-the-Bridge. Jon and Visenya sent their own ships stocked with food and supplies needed for the North to White Harbor, Ramsgate, the Dreadfort, Karhold, and Eastwatch-by-the-Sea.

“I miss it. Thirteen years, I have not seen the lands south of the Neck. Part of me feared I would never want to return home once I crossed the Green Fork. I was afraid the rivers and the flowers and the warmth of the Riverlands would remind me of the Reach and Highgarden, but the further south we ride, the more my heart aches for Winterfell. I miss seeing Ned swinging his sword in the training yard and Brynden mirroring his every move. I miss praying with Alys before the heart tree in the godswood and riding with Jocelyn and her pony through the Wolfswood. I miss sharing our bed with my lord husband.”

“I love you,” Robb said for it was all he could say. He knew Margaery came to Riverrun during the War of the Four Kings to secure an alliance. He knew she may never love him, but he married her because he fell in love with her the moment he first laid eyes on her. He said he did it for the alliance with House Tyrell, but Robb knew if he was to be honest with himself, he had to admit he married for love. _Thank the gods she fell in love with me. What would our life be without it? Cold and joyless, like a harsh winter…_

“Mmm, and I love you,” Margaery sounded pleased, biting her lip after their long kiss. She looked as desperate as himself to share a bed and each other. Robb was sure she was ready to pull on his leather jerkin for another kiss, but a roar from a dragon captured their attention. “I hate this place.”

“You once told me you were fond of it,” Robb recalled.

“I did, when I was just a girl, but now…We’ve lost so much here,” Margaery alluded to the family they had lost. Robb would never know his grandfather and uncle, both killed by the Mad King inside the throne room of the Red Keep. Both of their fathers were killed by the Lannisters where the Great Sept of Baelor once stood on Visenya’s Hill. _At least I did not lose Bran or Rickon. I can never know what she feels, losing Loras._

“We can turnaround, ride north for Winterfell, and never look back,” Robb offered, though he was sure of her answer.

“Don’t be foolish. I do not think our children would forgive us, especially Jocelyn,” Margaery told him what he already knew. Both of his daughters were too young to truly remember their cousins’ visit during the royal progress through the North. And they had yet to meet their Tyrell cousins. Alys, perhaps even more than Jocelyn, wished to see King’s Landing. His eldest daughter was fond of dresses, her mother’s tales of Highgarden, and stories with chivalrous knights saving innocent maids. Robb was sure Alys would curse them if they never set foot inside the city. The knights she had seen on the Kingsroad were not enough.

“She would steal one of the horses and ride down the Kingsroad without us,” Robb said, chuckling to himself.

“She would, wouldn’t she? My troublesome little shewolf,” Margaery laughed before leaning her head against his shoulder. As they watched the dragons continue their dance, Robb wondered if there was any place for them in King’s Landing. His Aunt Lyanna seemed to be the only Stark who could survive the perils of court. _I shouldn’t worry. This is a tourney and we are not staying for long._

“Robb, we must keep an eye on our children, especially around my grandfather. I do not mean for him to include our children in his plots,” Margaery warned him.

“Aye,” Robb agreed, despite failing to see how Lord Leyton Hightower could include their children in his plot against the Iron Throne. For Margaery’s sake, he had prayed to the old gods his assumptions were wrong and the pieces of news that had been carried North had been twisted before reaching Winterfell. A handful of ravens from Highgarden carrying Willas Tyrell’s letters only confirmed their suspicions.

They were certain of House Hightower’s guilt, but Robb prayed for his wife’s sake Lady Alerie was ignorant of Lord Leyton’s conspiracy with the Most Devout. His children were finally going to meet the grandmother they had never known and the last thing he wanted was for them to lose her. _If it comes to it, I will beg for mercy on her behalf. Jon and Visenya are merciful._

When the first of the wheelhouses reached the bend in the Kingsroad, they mounted their horses and rode forth to join the head of the slow-moving column. Robb passed more than three dozen banners held by men at arms, household guards, and squires alike. The most prominent banners were white, blue, and red, bearing grey direwolves, silver trout, and white falcons.

While his destrier galloped past the wayns, wheelhouses, and plodding palfreys, Robb saw Lord Martyn Cassel leading his Dreadfort men with their black and grey banners spotted with ten direwolf heads. Behind the old lord came his son, Ethan Cassel, and Ethan’s lady wife, Jeyne Poole. When Lady Jeyne was not riding in her wheelhouse with her small children, Robb saw her spending her time with his sister and Lady Mya Redfort.

Ahead of the Cassel men rode the old Greatjon and half of House Umber proudly carrying their roaring giant sigil on red banners beside black banners bearing white sunbursts. With Rickon and Lady Alys Karstark ruling Winterfell in Robb’s stead, Arnoff Karstark led the Karhold men in Alys Karstark’s stead.

Unseen were the banners of House Reed. The crannogmen rarely travelled beyond their swamps and marshes and this time was no different. Howland Reed saw them safely through the Neck, but travelled only as far as the marshes would take him. Robb wished to speak with Jojen Reed on the Kingsroad, but Howland’s son never left Greywater Watch.

Grey-green banners with black lizard-lions were not the only ones missing from the northern party. Half of the mountain clans remained in their mountains and all the Houses that were formed beyond the Wall stayed beyond the Wall. Even Bran and Meera did not venture south, choosing instead to hold Moat Cailin with their son and daughter. Bran did not say his reasons, but Robb suspected he was unwelcomed in King’s Landing. _Visenya has not forgiven him._

Tormund Giantsbane rode proudly atop a brown destrier as if all the lords of the Seven Kingdoms welcomed him. Robb could only smirk as he passed the Lord of House Giantsbane and the people of Long Lake who followed him. A sleeping giant and a white bear roaring on a red field were painted on their banners. All the free folk clans and each of the nineteen minor Houses who claimed the abandoned castles of the Night’s Watch were interspersed with the northern Houses, wielding banners that looked foreign even to northmen. The Thenns took a man on a skewer burning over a fire as their sigil while the cave dwellers painted the mouth of a cave on their banners. The ice-river clans and hornfoots had sigils of their own, but he never saw them as he made his way to the front.

Lords Flint, Dustin, Hornwood, Glover, and Tallhart were just some of the men he acknowledged while riding past the rest of the northern contingent. Dozens of other Houses rode with them and their banners could be seen billowing proudly in the wind above the men who carried them. He could see the red eagle of House Condon next to the black bear of House Mormont, the green thistles of House Norrey ahead of the woolsacks of House Woolfield, and footprints of the Lightfoots beside the chevrons of the Stouts.

With most of his bannermen at his back, Robb pushed on with Margaery at his side on her white palfrey and Stark guards following in pursuit. They raced past his uncle’s bannermen. There were Mallisters and Darrys, Brackens and Whents, Blackwoods and Vances, and Rygers and Pipewoods. Robb saw the faces of men who fought at his side, either as lords, knights, or even simple squires.

There was Ser Raymun Erenford and his golden heron sigil emblazoned on his breastplate. The knight fought beside him at the Golden Tooth and helped the Blackfish raid Frey men coming to and from the Twins in the years after. Robb also spotted Lord Elfyn Wayn, who won a great victory near Raventree Hall. Lord Normund Hook was another known to Robb. Normund was only a knight until his father passed two years before, as he told Robb on the Kingsroad. He was a friend who saved Robb’s life twice along the banks of the Red Fork.

It was only when the Kingsroad began to wind its way down through the hills, Robb saw the wheelhouses holding his daughters and mother. Between them and himself were the lords of the Vale who joined them at the Crossroads. Lord Lyonel Corbray and Ser Lucas Corbray brought what looked to be their entire household and some twenty knights with them from Heart’s Home. Ahead of the Corbrays rode Lord Belmore and his sons. A night did not pass without the knights of Strongsong boasting of their great victories over the wildlings that surrounded their keep. Robb was grateful the Belmores never camped near the free folk for fear of blood being spilt.

Lords Arnold Crayne and Ulthor Dutton were still bickering over whose son would triumph in the joust when Robb reached the leading wheelhouses. A respectful nod was shared between himself and Ser Mychel Redfort, a brave knight and friend, who proved his mettle outside the walls of Winterfell. After the Redforts’ wheelhouse came the one belonging to Lady Roslin Tully and Sansa’s after hers and finally the one that carried his family.

“Father! We are close! We could see it!” Jocelyn cried out, sticking her head outside of the wheelhouse. Wilder than her sister, Robb was sure his seven-year-old daughter was begging her grandmother to abandon the protection of their ride and find a pony. Robb was confident his daughter would grow to be as beautiful as her mother. She inherited Margaery’s eyes and face, but her raven hair was all Stark. “Did you not hear us?”

“No, my little wolf, I did not hear your call,” Robb answered as his horse slowed beside the wheelhouse, allowing him to muss his daughter’s hair. Jocelyn giggled like she always did, much to Margaery’s frustration. His eldest daughter rolled her eyes at her sister, never wanting her chestnut braid ruined like Jocelyn’s.

“I told you they could not hear you over the dragons,” Alys warned her sister.

“I tried to jump out, but Grandmother would not let me,” Jocelyn pouted her lips before glaring at his mother who seemed more than tired with the girls. _Another day and she might be pushed to madness._

“And good thing I did. What would they think of us? You are a Stark and things are expected of you. Your mother will not have you entering the Red Keep with your skirts muddied, looking like some farmer’s girl. I certainly will not allow it,” Robb’s mother scolded Jocelyn.

“Mother, it is…,” Robb tried to defend his little girl.

“Fine? Did you sew her dresses? No? This isn’t the North and the Red Keep is not Winterfell,” his mother said with an iron conviction he was not ready to fight.

“Thank you, Lady Catelyn,” Margaery took his mother’s side. Margaery tolerated much of Jocelyn’s mischief, but Robb sensed that tolerance did not pass south of Moat Cailin.

“Where are your wolves?” Robb asked as soon as he noticed their absence.

“You know those beasts better than I. They come and go as they please,” his mother responded with little worry concerning the direwolves.

“Rose and White Wind were hungry. When Gendel and Gorne came back, they ran off into the woods,” Alys explained. Rose was her direwolf and Jocelyn’s was named White Wind. Where his daughters’ direwolves were white and grey of fur, his sons’ wolves were black and grey.

“And Betha?” Robb asked of the pups’ mother?

“She went with them,” Alys replied.

“Find them,” Robb commanded Grey Wind, who seemingly understood and disappeared into the trees. _They need to return before we reach the gate. The gold cloaks are not likely to bid them entry unaccompanied._

Spurring his destrier on, Robb went forth with Margaery to join his sister and Lord Harrold Arryn. Amongst the leading riders, Robb spied his sons riding beside their great uncle, Lord Edmure Tully. Each of them were protected by knights, men at arms, and a pack of wolves, led by his sister’s direwolf, Lady.

When he joined his sons, Robb spent the final leg of the journey reminding Ned and Brynden of their duty. He told them they not only represented their House, but the entirety of the North and they should conduct themselves accordingly. Neither seemed pleased with his speech, but he carried on with it and ensured they understood what was expected of them.

It was at the end of the Kingsroad’s descent, Robb spied curious eyes in the woods and on the side of the road. Some appeared to be farmers, others smallfolk from the city, and a few, he could not tell. The onlookers greeted them with kind eyes, used to the sight of knights of the Riverlands and the Vale of Arryn. _Will they look so kindly upon my bannermen? Will they hate or fear the free folk? Likely both._

A half mile was covered before Robb saw the parting of trees and the beginnings of the fields that surrounded the walls of King’s Landing. The sight ushered the sounding of three warhorns, telling the city of the arrival of Houses Stark, Arryn, and Tully. Unexpectedly, their hornblasts were echoed by a fourth, waiting on the road ahead. Robb was sure of his ears and knew the horn blower did not stand above the Dragon Gate.

“Look!” Brynden yelled with his finger pointed at the gathering of men and dragons waiting for them. With a host of Winterfell men riding before him, Robb tried and peered over their shoulders. Provided only a quick glimpse, two dragons were spied, with nearly a hundred armored men standing with them. One of the dragons possessed dark blue scales while the other’s scales were red as a flame.

“It’s Jon and Dany! That is Darkskye and Vyraxes,” Ned added, remembering the names of the dragons better than himself.

“Patience,” Robb warned his sons, seeing how eager they were to pull on the reins of their coursers and race toward their cousins. Ned and Brynden heeded his counsel, but their direwolves did not. Gendel and Gorne ran past them with Grey Wind and the rest after them. He did not know why until he spied the four direwolves sitting on their haunches beneath the Targaryen banners.

Only after his men halted their advance and Robb dismounted his destrier, was he able to see his nieces and nephews. Flanked by soldiers clad in black armor with cloaks of red and black, stood two princes and two princesses. The eldest prince looked just like his namesake, dressed all in black with his raven hair tied up. His brother was slightly shorter, but looked as strong and closely resembled the King. Princess Daenerys, or Dany as she was called by family, was a mirror image of her mother. _It is as if I am looking into the past._

While Dany seemed to fit in with her brothers, wearing riding breeches and a black leather jerkin, the younger princess did not. Robb was sure this was Princess Sansa. Unlike her sister, Princess Sansa wore grey riding breeches and a sleeveless vest that seemed more fit for Essos than the Crownlands. If it were not for their preferences in wardrobe, Robb guessed they would be hard to tell apart. Both were great beauties, with long silver hair woven in complex Dothraki braids and amethyst eyes unlike anything seen in Westeros.

“Lord Stark, Lady Stark,” Prince Jon stepped forth with Dany close by his side. It was not hard for him to see the love his niece and nephew held for each other. Neither could take ten steps without their eyes falling upon the other.

“My Prince, Princess,” Robb said in return.

“Lord Edmure,” his nephew greeted the Lord of Riverrun with a nod before moving his eyes to Robb’s sister and Lord Harrold. “Lord Harrold, Lady Sansa.”

“Uncle,” Brandon broke the formality looming between both parties, embracing Robb. When his nephew finally let him go, he moved aside to speak with Ned and Brynden.

“I pray the road here was safe,” Prince Jon said just as his twin-sister went to speak with Margaery.

“It was,” Robb replied before stealing a quick glance over his shoulder at the sea of banners behind him. “If it wasn’t, I had a small army with me.”

“Should we have brought our armies, my Prince? I have heard disturbing things from the Reach. Bandallon and Brightwater Keep, now the Shield Islands…,” Edmure wasted no time bringing up the rising tensions with the Faith Militant and the rumored Ironborn raids.

“Those are matters you must discuss with my father and mothers, not I,” Jon answered in a neutral tone with a stern look. Edmure was neither bloodthirsty nor power-hungry, but Robb thought his uncle was still too desperate for glory and too eager to please. “They sent us here to see you through the city. My Father said he will speak with you both and Lord Harrold after everything is settled in the Throne Room.”

“Jon! Sansa! Dany! Brandon!” Robb heard the cries of several children. His daughters were running from their wheelhouse through the green grass to embrace their cousins. Jeyne and Amanda Arryn were running with them while Roland rode forth on his grey pony.

“Uncle Robb,” Dany said as she hugged him fiercely.

“I hear you mean to win the archery,” Robb replied, having little doubt she would win. _If Visenya has taught her anything, the others are doomed._

“I will try,” Dany said with a humbleness in her tone. “I wanted to enter the melee, but my parents refused.”

“The melee?” he asked to make sure he heard right. When his niece nodded her head in confirmation, he noticed the sword sheathed at her side and realized she was her mother’s daughter. “Well, I am happy they refused your wishes. The melee is dangerous, even with the armor. And we certainly cannot have a Princess of the Seven Kingdoms being bruised and beaten for sport. I doubt your father would even let your brothers enter.”

“That is what I told her,” Princess Sansa cut in before sharing an embrace with Robb. “Is it true, there are direwolves in the Wolfswood now?”

“It is true, though Betha is the only one we have seen south of Tumbledown Tower. The free folk see them around Long Lake and near the mountains. I see you have wolves of your own,” Robb answered his curious niece.

“Mine is Misty. She is good and loyal,” Sansa told him, eyeing the grey-white direwolf at her feet. “Brandon’s is Quickstream. She is a good swimmer. And Dany’s is Dunk. He stronger and fiercer than his brothers. And Suvion is over there. He is quiet and doesn’t like too many people.”

“And the dragons?” Robb asked, looking warily at the two dragons looming in the background. They looked so large, he was sure if they spread their wings, they could form a pavilion blocking out the sun over all their heads.

“Vyraxes and Darkskye? They are harmless. I would worry more about Aunt Arya’s wolves. They do not take kindly to many,” Dany laughed until she spoke of Arya’s direwolf and the pack it led. _Harmless dragons? That is the last word I would use to describe them._

“Are we the last to arrive?” Robb inquired.

“The last of the lords and ladies who matter, I think. The Tyrells and Martells arrived a few days ago. It seems a lord from the Iron Islands sails into harbor every day and I heard Lord Davos say there are some still expected to arrive from across the Narrow Sea,” Dany informed him.

“You should see the tourney grounds. The tents go on for miles. Arya told me…our sister, Arya, told me the Master of Games counted over a thousand knights entering the joust, melee, archery, and the rest,” Princess Sansa added cheerfully. Robb sensed she was more enthralled by the pageantry and spectacle of the tourney and all that came with it than her older sister.

After Margaery came to his side and his sister came to stand next to her namesake, the conversation turned to matters of little interest. Princess Sansa promised the seamstresses were waiting to fit Margaery and the other northern ladies with dresses more suited to the warmth of the Crownlands. Robb wondered how much coin this would cost until Dany informed them the dresses were gifts from the Iron Throne.

Robb stayed silent while his wife discussed the fashions at court and the gossip of the Crownlands. He watched his sons from afar. Ned was proudly showing Jon and Brandon his sword while Brynden showed them the bow he had stowed away on his horse. He was glad to see his sons getting along with their kin.

“Uncle, I do not mean to…,” Jon started once Robb’s sister was finished asking about some scandal regarding a girl of House Wensington and a boy of House Grandison.

“Aye, we do not wish to keep your father waiting,” Robb said, earning a thankful nod from Prince Jon. Robb helped Margaery onto her saddle and walked over to ensure his sons were ready to ride before returning to his own mount. With a quick glance over his shoulder, he observed Jocelyn and Alys return to his mother’s wheelhouse. Knowing his family was ready to ride through the gates, Robb dug in his boots and urged his destrier to gallop ahead.

A short hornblast sounded from the Targaryen guards and both dragons let out strong roars. Robb wasn’t sure, but he felt as if their roars and the kick of their legs shook the ground before they took to the sky. Seeing them again reminded him how grateful he felt to fight on the side with dragonfire.

Their train of horses, wheelhouses, wayns, and marching men was moving again. Robb passed his wife and sister, who rode beside his nieces to continue their conversation pertaining to court. Grey Wind ran beside him, passing Edmure, Harrold, and Prince Brandon. Once he was beside his cousin’s namesake, he tugged on the reins to fall in beside the prince.

“Make way! Make way!” Robb heard from the riders ahead. The fifty or more Targaryen household guards led them past dozens of smallfolk waiting at the side of the Kingsroad. Almost all of them looked to be farmers or merchants of some kind. Wherever he looked, he found wayns filled with apples and berries, breads and ale, meats and cheese, and others topped with wool covers to hide their wares. _They have been waiting here for some time. None of them look pleased._

“Father has doubled the watch at the gates,” Jon explained before Robb could ask. As the Dragon Gate drew closer and closer, it became clear why so many were waiting outside the city walls. The ramparts above the gate and the grounds below were filled with gold cloaks and Unsullied. The saddlebags and wayns of every traveler were inspected before they were permitted to enter King’s Landing.

“Seven of the Faith Militant attempted to enter the city with a cart carrying daggers, clubs, battleaxes, swords… Five of them died at the Old Gate. The sixth died an hour later and the seventh was questioned. He said no one sent them, even after questioning from Lord Yohn’s men and Lord Varys. Lord Eddison has ordered his captains to expect more attempts to smuggle weapons into the city,” his nephew explained as the leading riders passed through the Dragon Gate. The men of the City Watch did their best to imitate the Unsullied beside them, standing at attention as their princes and princesses rode past.

“Is this prisoner still being questioned?” Robb asked his nephew as their horses strode through the small square inside the Dragon Gate. Hundreds of people, old and young alike, filled the streets, alleys, doorways, windows, and balconies within sight.

“There are no more questions to ask, or so Varys says. He is awaiting judgement in the Black Cells,” Jon answered with a grim look on his face, telling Robb he did not take pleasure in the prisoner’s fate. _You are more like your father than you know._

“Are there always this many people?” Brynden asked, perched on his courser behind them. His youngest son was in awe of their reception while Ned kept a face as hard as steel. Robb smirked when his eldest’s façade was broken by the sight and cheers of three fair maids calling for the dragon princes and wolves of Winterfell.

“There will be far more in the King’s Square and there will certainly be crowds outside the Red Keep. The entire city has known of your arrival, cousin. I do not think the smallfolk have ever seen the Lords of Winterfell, Riverrun, and the Eyrie ride into the city together. I’d wager many of these people come from the countryside,” his nephew said, riding with the posture of a prince. Jon was still just a boy in truth, but Robb could tell he was wise for his age and likely more dangerous with a blade than most of his guards. _Even with his hundred armed men and the direwolves, he is still looking for threats._

Leaving the Dragon Gate behind them, their column steadily made its way down the street he led his men during the siege. Robb remembered it all, but the city around them was not familiar. The streets were clean, without waste or corpses, and the alleys were not the same. Gold and crimson banners were replaced with the red and black of House Targaryen. The three-headed dragon hung from windows and balconies and billowed proudly atop the buildings around them.

Robb did not miss the changes on Rhaenys’ Hill. The Dragonpit still laid a ruin, but the small ruins that once stood in its shadows were now replaced by buildings he did not remember. The hundreds of Unsullied standing between the ten-foot wall and the street reminded him the Unsullied kept barracks on the grounds. If he had not seen them fight with his own eyes, he would still know them to be brave. Bravery was required for one to lay their head so close to the dragons’ lair, or so Robb thought.

“Will the Dragonpit be rebuilt?” Brynden inquired after the great dragon with black scales emerged from the ruined stone and flew overhead.

“Dragons do not do well in captivity. This place was one of my family’s greatest mistakes,” Prince Jon answered in a somber tone before forcing a smile upon himself. “If you wish, we can return on the morrow. I need to see to Darkskye and Suvion is growing tired of all the strangers in the gardens and godswood. The city is no place for direwolves, I am afraid. Your wolves would like Rhaenys’ Hill. There are groves, fields, and even a few pools to swim.”

“Father?” Brynden asked permission to join his cousin on the morrow.

“You may go,” Robb answered, seeing no harm in the matter.

As Prince Jon had promised, the King’s Square was brimming with smallfolk, far more than those present at the Dragon Gate. Hundreds lined the shops and homes along the Street of Sisters, waiting to glimpse their slow-moving column. Every ten feet stood a man of the City Watch, warning the eager to stay back and keeping an eye out for the ill-intentioned. When the street opened to the square and its marbled kings of old, they were greeted by the cheers of thousands.

All around them, Robb saw children cheering on the knights who rode behind them and girls giggling over the dragon princes and any other rider they thought handsome. The joy for the tourney and the admiration for House Targaryen made Robb question how true a threat the Faith Militant and the Hightowers posed. _All these people worship the Seven. Do they not answer to the Starry Sept or is a tourney enough to make them forget?_

“Is that King Rhaegar?” Brynden asked Ned, pointing to the great marble statue standing amidst the fountains at the center of the square.

“That is Aegon the Conqueror. There is King Rhaegar,” Ned pointed to the statue near the street that led to Aegon’s Hill.

“The statue in the Dragonhall is more fitting. The Conqueror is with his queens,” the prince noted softly enough for only Robb to hear.

After they escaped the crowded King’s Square and reached the cobble-stoned street that cut a straight path toward Aegon’s Hill, Robb peered through the forest of banners and spears ahead to find the Red Keep. The castle’s towers and walls loomed large over the surrounding homes. It looked the part of a castle fit for dragonlords with the great beasts flying circles around the towers and turrets of Maegor’s Holdfast.

Like the Street of Sisters, the people of King’s Landing lined the cobblestoned street from the King’s Square to Aegon’s Hill. Merchants shouted for the Wardens of the North and East in an attempt to sell their wares. Small children cut their way through the crowds, attempting to keep up with the procession. There were also whores eying the lords and knights behind them, but they did not offer what they had to sell like the others. Robb thought that odd, shy whores, until he remembered who ruled the city. His cousin was not foolish enough to outlaw whoring, but he would not be surprised if the Iron Throne decreed some laws of decency.

The masses beneath the walls of the Red Keep were a fervent lot, all clamoring to see their favorite knight or prince. Some wished Prince Jon luck in the joust while others declared their coin was on Princess Daenerys to win the archery. Other names were called as well. Robb heard his own name among the dozen others the smallfolk cried. They rode up Aegon’s Hill like conquering heroes of a war that had never taken place. Robb did not know why until he heard one woman praise the northmen for the defense of the Seven Kingdoms and the victory against the dead.

“My mother made sure to remind the people who fought for them. She says the people will not forget, as long as she reigns,” Jon explained after Robb gave his nephew a confused look. He appreciated the gesture, but part of it still felt queer, celebrating a victory from years past.

When his nephew waved to the smallfolk, their cheers grew louder and maids seemed to love the gesture most of all. The Unsullied had formed shield walls on either side of the street, maintaining a clear path for the final five hundred feet standing between them and the open gate. This was nothing like the North and it made Robb wonder how his children would react to this reception. After turning in his saddle, he saw Ned and Brynden waving to the girls as their cousin had.

“Make way for Prince Jon!” Robb heard one of the guards atop the battlements cry out. Before they passed through the main gate, he glimpsed a soldier between every merlon, each of them Unsullied. They were not hard to identify with their black armor, rounded shields, and spiked helms.

Once they were through the walls and into the outer bailey, Robb was reminded of the capture of the Red Keep. Soldiers were everywhere he looked. Targaryen guards in their red and black manned the gatehouses and stood atop the ramparts, mixed amongst the ranks of Unsullied. All the doors and passageways within sight were also guarded by men with spears and shields. He spied three patrols of paired soldiers and their guard dogs walking along the walls. The nearest dogs barked at them until Grey Wind and Suvion let out low, but threatening growls toward the smaller beasts.

Before any of them could dismount, three dozen stableboys descended upon them, taking the reins from every rider. As Robb slid from his saddle, the first of the wheelhouses were being pulled into the crowded yard. More lords and knights poured through the gates as Robb went to his mother’s wheelhouse to retrieve Alys and Jocelyn. Both of his girls sprinted from the wheelhouse like prisoners escaping the Black Cells.

“This way, my lords,” Prince Jon announced, gesturing for everyone to follow, with Princess Daenerys at his side. With Margaery on his arm, Robb fell in behind Prince Brandon and Princess Sansa as they made their way through the outer bailey. Their direwolves and children came with, following close behind them. Further behind trailed the long procession of lords, ladies, and knights. All the guards, retainers, and servants of the dozens of households remained with the baggage, ready to be taken to the guest chambers waiting in other parts of the castle.

Like the outer bailey, the middle and inner baileys brimmed with Unsullied and Targaryen household guards. Robb had long forgotten how to find his way around the Red Keep, but he was sure it would be hard to become lost. Unlike Winterfell, Robb noticed the Red Keep always had eyes on those inside its walls. If one were lost, all they needed to do was ask one of the thousands of guards or hundreds of servants around them.

After weaving their way through the maze of baileys and serpentine steps, Robb’s nieces and nephews led their party up the marbled steps to the Entrance Hall. Unsullied and Targaryen household guards flanked the doors to the Throne Room and the marbled walls around them. The ceiling of the hall stood as tall as the Throne Room and its walls were decorated with paintings depicting the history of House Targaryen.

“Prince Jon! Princess Daenerys! The King and Queens just finished with the magisters of Myr. They are expecting your presence before they receive Lords Stark, Tully, and Arryn,” said the herald who came forth from the hallway to their left.

“Uncle,” his nephew bid him farewell before disappearing down the hallway with Dany, Brandon, Sansa, and the direwolves that belonged to them.

“Look Father! Look! Its Balerion at Harrenhal,” Jocelyn demanded his attention, pulling on his sleeve until his eyes found the painting of the black dragon melting the towers of Harrenhal. “And there is King Rhaegar at Pyke! Grandfather fought at Pyke.”

“He did, my little wolf, he did,” Robb confirmed as he stared at Jon’s father leading men into battle. When he found his father fighting near the King and the Kingsguard, he pointed to the direwolf sigil painted on his breastplate. “There he is.”

“Children, gather round. Alys, come here,” Margaery corralled their children after Robb had followed Jocelyn around the Entrance Hall to admire every painting. While carefully inspecting the children’s appearance, Margaery continued, “Remember what we spoke of this morning. In there, you are standing before the King and Queens of the Seven Kingdoms, not your aunts and uncle. Remain silent and bend the knee when your father and I do.”

“Yes, Mother,” each of them echoed, except a disinterested Jocelyn.

“Lord Robb. Lord Edmure. Lord Harrold,” called a herald, approaching from the corridor the princes and princesses had left them. “The King and Queens will see you now. Guards!”

Before the pair of Unsullied guards could open the doors to the Throne Room, Robb looked behind himself and Margaery. Ned and Brynden stood as tall as they could with lordly postures and stern faces. Alys could barely hide her glee and excitement while Jocelyn looked at her sister like she was a foolish maid, reminding him of his own sisters. His mother stood close behind the children, keeping a watchful eye on each.

To his left, Robb found his sister Sansa, Lord Harrold Arryn, and their children. On his right stood his uncle Edmure, Lady Roslin, and their sons. Behind them all followed the lords, ladies, and knights of the North, the Riverlands, and the Vale.

Hearing the slow creaking sound of opening doors, Robb returned his gaze to the Throne Room. The first thing Robb could see was Jon sitting the Iron Throne beneath red stained glass with Ghost laying at his feet and two knights of the Kingsguard standing at the bottom of the steps leading to the throne. When the doors were fully parted and he could see the three queens, Robb began his march toward the Iron Throne.

Inside the Throne Room, they were greeted to a court that filled the floor between the massive columns to his right and left. The galleries to the left were also full of lords and ladies with curious, cautious, and hateful eyes alike. The warmest faces were those from the Reach, Dorne, and the Stormlands. Some he remembered fighting beside and others he didn’t. It was the scornful looks from Lords Lewys Lydden and Gerold Prester that reminded Robb some enemies would remain enemies forever.

Not all the lords of the Westerlands shared Lydden and Prester’s contempt for the North. Lord Jaime Lannister held a face of indifference while Lord Damon Marbrand greeted Robb with a nod of respect one shares with a man he has fought beside. There were also lords from the Iron Islands, but he did not care to read their faces at a glance. The Ironborn were hard and bitter people and he suspected that had not changed.

“You stand in the presence of Jon of the House Targaryen, First of His Name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm, Khal of the Great Grass Sea, King of Essos, the Father of Dragons, the Unburnt, the Breaker of Chains,” another herald recited the many titles his cousin had acquired or inherited. Upon hearing the titles, Robb’s eyes flickered back to Jon and the Valyrian steel crown upon his head. The square cut rubies matched the traces of red woven into the King’s black doublet. Jon also wore black breeches and polished, black boots as he always preferred.

It was said a crown could weigh heavy upon the head it sits, but Robb did think the words were true for every ruler. The King and Queens before him looked no older than their years.

“And Daenerys Stormborn of the House Targaryen, First of Her Name, Queen of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lady of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm, Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea, Queen of Essos, the Mother of Dragons, the Unburnt, the Breaker of Chains,” the herald continued as Robb observed Daenerys seated to Jon’s right with her direwolf seated at her feet. Daenerys was still called the most beautiful woman in the world and Robb could see not fault in that belief. She wore a white Essosi dress that bared her arms and shoulders. Her silver hair was woven in complex braids with fine curls spiraling down the sides of her face. Even from afar, he could see her amethyst eyes matching the stones on her Valyrian steel crown tipped with flames on a band patterned in dragonscales.

“And Visenya of the House Targaryen, First of Her Name, Queen of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lady of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm, Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea, Queen of Essos, the Mother of Dragons, the Unburnt, the Breaker of Chains,” the herald announced his cousin’s titles. Robb thought of Daenerys as a sister from her time at Winterfell, but Visenya was even closer to him and her warm smile showed it. Visenya’s hair was done in a similar fashion to Daenerys’ with a Valyrian steel crown sitting upon her head. Her crown carried flamed points atop a thin band marked by sapphires and patterned with dragonscales and wolf pelts.

As they approached the steps of the Iron Throne, Robb did his best to hide his shock at the dress Visenya wore. Like Daenerys, Visenya wore a grey Essosi dress that revealed more than any dress he had ever seen her wear. Her time as a queen in Essos had changed her and he realized he had forgotten that.

Before his gaze turned to Queen Rhaenys, Robb found his sister Arya standing last amongst the onlookers to his left. His sister did not wear an Essosi dress, but even the simple and conservative dress she adorned shocked him. She stood with her husband and their small children.

Robb was pleased to see his half-sister Allyria standing with the Baratheons. Beside her stood Lord Willas Tyrell and their four children. With a final glimpse, he spotted his Uncle Benjen Stark and Lady Ashara Stark.

With only twenty more feet to go, Robb was finally able to get a good look at the Targaryen princes and princesses. None of them were recognizable from the last time he saw them. The princesses had more of their mothers in them than Jon, but the princes all closely resembled their father. _It will take days to properly match the names to faces._

To the left of Visenya’s throne stood half the Targaryen children with Queen Rhaella, Lord Monford Velaryon, Queen Elia, and Robb’s Aunt Lyanna behind them. The other princes and princesses stood to the right of Rhaenys’ throne with the members of the Small Council behind them. The Martells, Velaryons, and the lords of the Crownlands occupied the floor closest to Queen Rhaenys.

“And Rhaenys of the House Targaryen, First of Her Name, Queen of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lady of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm, Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea, Queen of Essos, the Mother of Dragons, the Unburnt, the Breaker of Chains,” the herald said the last of the many Targaryen titles. Rhaenys braided her hair, dressed in a red Essosi dress, and sat protected by a direwolf like her fellow queens, but that was where the similarities ended. Rhaenys’ dark brown hair and her tanned skin set her apart from Visenya and Daenerys. Even her eyes were a darker shade of violet. The Valyrian steel crown of Queen Rhaenys was forged with flamed points on a dragonscaled band studded with great rubies.

“Your Graces, Lord Robb Stark and Lady Margaery Stark, Lord Harrold Arryn and Lady Sansa Arryn, Lord Edmure Tully and Lady Roslin Tully,” the herald called their names as soon as they were on bended knee before the King and Queens. The room was silent as crypt once the dozens of lords and ladies behind them fell to their knees. Robb kept his head down and his eyes on the marble floor, waiting for his cousin to say something.

“Rise, my lords and ladies. It is good to see so many familiar faces. There will be a feast in the Great Hall this night. My Queens and I wish to speak with each of you before the night is done,” King Jon Targaryen said after they remained on bended knee for a few moments. When Robb lifted his bowed head, he saw the King and Queens standing from their thrones. After Jon descended the steps to pass between Ser Barristan Selmy and Ser Arthur Dayne, he greeted Robb with a strong embrace. “Stark.”

“Targaryen,” Robb replied with a grin. Visenya went to speak with the Arryns as Rhaenys greeted the Tullys. Queen Daenerys remained at Jon’s side, but turned to Margaery as soon as they spoke.

“Was there any trouble on the Kingsroad?” Jon asked.

“None,” Robb confirmed what he assumed his cousin already knew. “I see Ser Arthur and Ghost are still at your side.”

“And I see Grey Wind has not left yours,” Jon said after a shared laugh.

“Uncle!” Jocelyn brushed past Robb before he could stop her from rushing into Jon’s arms.

“Jocelyn, stop,” Alys warned her sister.

“Jocelyn? The last time I saw you, you were just a babe,” Jon said, smiling as spoke to her on bended knee. “And I see you have a direwolf. What is her name?”

“White Wind. She is faster than Gendel and Gorne. Ned and Brynden said she isn’t, but they are liars,” Jocelyn answered with pride.

“We are not liars,” Brynden defended himself.

“Enough,” Robb warned his children.

“And you two are taller than I remember. I assume you can both swing a practice sword?” Jon asked, earning nods from both of Robb’s sons. “The training yards grow crowded before the tourneys, but my sons wake early enough and know where to spar. Go speak with Valarr and Brandon. They will see to it you accompany them on the morrow.”

“Does the Sword of the Morning train them? Like he trained you and Father?” Brynden asked.

“Sometimes,” Jon said, enough to send Brynden and Ned off to speak with their cousins.

“Robb!” said a cheerful Visenya, embracing him with a hug. It was then he noticed the Valyrian steel sword sheathed at her hip. _Some things still have not changed._ “And my beautiful nieces! My, you have grown. Alys, I hear you are fond of dresses, yes? Good, there should be a few waiting for you in your chambers. If they are not to your liking, we will send for more.”

“Thank you! Thank you, your Grace,” Alys said excitedly before remembering her lessons and bowing with a perfected curtsy.

“That isn’t necessary, not now,” Visenya whispered just loud enough for those close by to hear. “And you, Jocelyn. Your mother tells me you like to ride through the Wolfswood. I am afraid there is no Wolfswood here in King’s Landing, but the Kingswood and the coastal road make for good riding. I promised my Lyarra and Viserra we would go riding through the Kingswood on the morrow. Would you like to join us?”

“Yes!” responded a giddy Jocelyn. Showing just how different she was to her sister, Robb’s youngest thanked Visenya with a hug, forgetting Margaery’s curtsies.

“Alysanne, Vaella,” Visenya called over her two youngest princesses, both only a few moons older than Alys. “Introduce your cousins to your brothers and sisters.”

“Don’t be nervous, go,” Margaery encouraged Alys with a push to join the princesses. Jocelyn needed no such encouragement for she was quick to make friends with her Targaryen cousins. When their daughters were away, climbing the steps toward the thrones, Margaery continued, “The Red Keep and court was all she could speak of for moons and now that we are here, she is too nervous to meet her own kin.”

“She will do well with Alysanne and Vaella. I can tell,” Visenya assured them with a queenly confidence in her voice. Robb carefully watched his eldest daughter interact with Alysanne and Vaella, finally finding her voice before a girl with flowing onyx hair came to join them. “And it seems Serena has taken a liking to her as well.” _Serena, my niece?_

“Tell us, is the North as quiet as your letters make it seem?” Visenya asked after they were done observing the children mingle.

“There can be troubles between the free folk and the Umbers, but they become less frequent as time passes. With winter gone and a warm summer here, most of my problems arise from quarrelsome lords along the Wall. They frequently dispute who holds which lands north and south of the Wall, but that should end,” Robb answered with the expectation most of the nineteen lords would follow his decrees after several moons on the Kingsroad.

“The harvests across the Gift are more plentiful than they have ever been,” Margaery added without having to explain further. Without winter and wildling raids, the lands south of the Wall could sustain and even grow their populations. The more ambitious of the newly raised lords were not blind to opportunities that could enrich and strengthen their Houses.

“We have heard the news from the Reach. The North will…,” Robb started to swear his vow of loyalty to House Targaryen and his King, until Jon raised a hand to silence him.

“That isn’t necessary. We will speak of it later,” Jon assured Robb before turning his eyes to the Tullys and a host of riverlords behind them. “Forgive me, but I must speak with Lord Edmure and Lord Harrold before I am accused of showing preference to the North.” _Is that the truth or does he mistrust Margaery? He has never lied to me before._

Robb shared a look with Margaery while Jon and Visenya crossed the floor to speak with the lords of the Riverlands. He could tell she held the same questions he did. Neither dared to speak with so many ears close by, so they waited to meet with Queen Rhaenys once she was finished greeting Harrold and Sansa.

“Robb, nine years has been too long,” his sister Allyria said as she approached with her lord husband, Willas Tyrell, on her arm. With a closer look, he could tell the years had been kind to his sister. The violet dress she wore matched her eyes and stood in stark contrast to the green doublet worn by Willas. After hugging her longer than he intended, she continued, “I’ve missed you, brother.”

“And I have missed you,” Robb swore as Margaery embraced her oldest brother. “Elys and Serena look just like you. And Arthur, he is taller than I expected. And Rodrik is…”

“All his father,” Allyria said proudly as she leaned into Willas. “He is my clever, little boy. I meant to introduce him to his uncle and aunt, but I am afraid he has scurried away with Steffon. They have become close, those two.”

“How is our sister?” Robb asked when he could not find Arya amongst the lords and ladies surrounding them.

“She is well and happy…I think. You know Arya. Even if she were not, she wouldn’t tell us,” Allyria answered.

“I did not see our mother,” Margaery said, silently demanding answers from her brother.

“She is supposed to reach the city in two days. Their stay in Tumbleton was longer than expected. Another of our grandfather’s schemes, I am sure,” Willas replied with a dark look on his face.

“That or he plans to be the last lord of any importance to arrive for the tourney. I do not want our mother returning with him to Oldtown. I do not trust him or our dull uncles. They think themselves clever because they can manipulate an army of fanatics,” Margaery said with even greater frustration.

“Why do you think I sent for her? She will return with us to Highgarden,” Willas promised.

“And if she refuses?” Margaery countered. Lady Alerie preferred Oldtown to Highgarden, but Robb never thought his good-mother stubborn enough to protest Willas’ command.

“Then I will remind her who is the head of House Tyrell. She does not have a choice in this matter,” Willas Tyrell swore. It was clear for any to see the Lord of Highgarden wished to avoid asserting his authority over his own lady mother. Robb pitied Willas, remembering when he was forced to lock away his own mother and make her a near-prisoner for releasing Jaime Lannister.

“There is a solution that does not involve carrying your mother off to Highgarden against her will. Leave this to me…grandmothers can be easily swayed by grandchildren,” Allyria said, earning a thankful nod from Margaery. “But enough with our southern problems. Tell us of the North. Are Rickon and Bran well? Their children? Regrettably, ravens from Moat Cailin and Karhold are few and far between.”

“Bran isn’t so…,” Robb began.

“Strange?” Allyria finished.

“Aye. He no longer speaks in riddles….well, not every word is a riddle. Margaery says it is because of Meera and the children. Raya is brave for her age. She says her mother has taught her the swamps and bogs. Most of the food we ate at feast was caught by her nets or killed by her spear. And Elric, he likes to climb like Bran. Every morning, we found him climbing the Children’s Tower. It will be years before the castle is repaired,” Robb told his sister, who seemed delighted to learn Bran was returning to himself.

“Moat Cailin is still a haunted ruin if you ask me, but I cannot deny the beauty of their godswood. The weirwoods are small now, but they are a wonderous sight,” Margaery added. _Wonderous without their eyes carved into their trunk, you mean._

“Rickon promises to visit King’s Landing, when Harlon and Berena are old enough to make the journey,” Robb continued as he wondered if his nephew and niece took after their mother or father. He had only seen Harlon when he was just a babe and Berena was less than a year old.

“And after they have more,” Margaery said suggestively, telling Robb his wife did not reveal everything Alys shared with her by raven scroll.

“Mayhaps we will visit the North before that day comes. I want my children to see Winterfell and the North. And I think Winter misses it. I should like for her to hunt the Wolfswood again, before the end of her days,” Allyria mused.

“You will not journey north alone, sister. Robb…,” he heard Arya’s voice.

The night’s feast was everything Robb expected and more. Instead of an expected ten or fifteen course meal, there were twenty. He had heard there would be fifty courses served during the feasts to start and end the tourney. Lady Stokeworth complained of that news, reminding those who could hear seventy-seven courses were served at the Purple Wedding, until Lord Stokeworth silenced her.

Feasts in the Great Hall of Winterfell were never a disappointment, for himself or his family. His children enjoyed the friendship of the lowborn children who called Winterfell and Winter Town home, and they made friends with the sons and daughters of Robb’s northern lords. Margaery added her southern touch to a northern feast, winning over the hearts and loyalty of the ladies who came to Winterfell. _I pray they do not become accustomed to this._

After the hall was served plates of venison, fish, elk, beef, pork, and more, the bards and their songs returned. When the bards returned, so did the dance. Robb never thought himself an even middling dancer, but Margaery pulled him from their seats of honor upon the great dais anyway. They danced through three songs before they traded partners. Visenya and Allyria saved him from embarrassment, guiding his clumsy steps until the hall was graced with a show of firedancers.

A company of mummers provided Robb his opportunity to escape his conversation with Tormund Giantsbane and Ethan Cassel. He meant to join Margaery, but decided to leave her be when he saw her laughing and sipping wine with Queen Rhaenys Targaryen. His wife looked beautiful in her green southern dress, a gift from his half-sister.

With his horn of surprisingly good northern ale, Robb climbed the nearby stairs that led to a gallery overlooking the entirety of the Great Hall. He thought he was alone on his march past the columns and balustrades to his left, and the paintings and flickering torchlight to his right. Before he reached the end of the gallery, he discovered Lord Varys and Ser Jorah Mormont whispering as they observed the dance and feast below.

The spymaster and knight of the Small Council acknowledged him by name before quickly returning to their whispers. Robb was glad neither pulled him aside, involving him in their schemes. Instead, he found his place at the end of the gallery next to an arched open-window that provided a view of Blackwater Bay if one found the Great Hall disinteresting. From there, he could see everything and hope to find his children.

His mother sat at the end of the dais nearest Robb, speaking with Lady Roslin Tully. Queen Rhaella Targaryen sat further down the table with Lord Monford Velaryon and several of his grandchildren. Robb found his aunt speaking with Queen Elia, Lady Ashara, and his Uncle Benjen.

Seeing none of his children, Robb turned his eyes to the dance floor that separated the dais and the seven rows of never-ending tables. Sansa danced with her husband and some of the princes danced with their sisters. He had almost given up until he spied Alys dancing with a blonde-haired lordling who looked to be from the Crownlands with his finely woven doublet and graceful moves for a boy who could be no older than eleven.

“I do not blame you,” Robb heard as soon as he lost sight of Alys and her partner. They were so small amongst the men and women who danced around them, it was difficult to keep an eye on them, even from the gallery. Jon approached with Ser Arthur Dayne and Ser Simon Sunglass behind him. “She looks happy. The boy is one of Lord Ardrian’s grandsons, I think.”

“I haven’t even been in this city for a day and I have already had four lords seek a betrothal between Alys and their sons or grandsons,” Robb said before pouring a good amount of ale down his throat.

“Good,” Jon said as he leaned against the balustrade beside him. _Good?_ “If they are asking you, they are not asking me. I have lost track of how many lords or knights I have refused. It must be thousands now. In a different world, without the dragons, I would have said yes to a few of them.”

“Would your Queens?” Robb asked.

“No, I suppose they would not,” Jon admitted with a smile before looking the feast below. “Do you have an idea of who you will betroth your children to?”

“I will let Ned have his choices, but she must be a lady from a northern House. After my mother and Margaery, I fear another southern lady would be an offence to my bannermen. Brynden will have the same choice and Alys…Alys will wed a Manderly, I think. She loves White Harbor, the city, and the Merman’s Court.”

“And Jocelyn?” Jon inquired.

“They are still too young to judge, but perhaps Robett Glover’s grandson. I want Jocelyn to be happy and I think she would be happy at Deepwood Motte. She likes the Wolfswood…,” Robb explained. _Aunt Lyanna also loved riding through the Wolfswood and she stayed south to marry a prince. Could Jocelyn do the same?_

“What about my niece, Arya?” Robb asked as the princess walked the opposite gallery with a retinue of maids.

“She isn’t betrothed, as far as the lords of the Seven Kingdoms know. Even if I tried to wed her to the heir of a great House, she would refuse. Her heart is with another. They try to hide it, but they are poor actors,” Jon replied with some amusement.

“Rhaegar,” Robb said, putting the pieces of what he had seen and heard together. The Crown Prince and the Princess said nothing to give away their affections, but their eyes betrayed them. Even as Arya entertained the girls around her, Robb could see her eyes never wandered far from the sight of Rhaegar drinking at a table below.

“The Faith and House Hightower…What do you think?” Jon asked after a long silence.

“What do I think? I’m not the King and I do not have your spies. I know nothing of the Faith or the Reach, only what Margaery has told me. You have a good council of advisors that I would trust. You do not need my counsel,” Robb argued.

“I trust them, but they are not family. With Aegon gone, you are the closest thing I have left to a brother. I would have your honest counsel. I trust you more than any of them down there. You could have crowned yourself during the war, if you wished. You didn’t. You remained loyal and supported my rightful claim. I will not forget that, ever. The game of thrones did not corrupt your honor then and as far as I can tell, it hasn’t corrupted you since,” Jon said.

“I did what was right,” Robb replied. _I did what Father would have done._

“Aye, and that is why I seek your counsel. If I misstep, war will spread across the Reach, into the Stormlands and Dorne,” Jon stated.

“I can only speak to what Margaery has told me of Lord Leyton and what I remember from the war. He was a capable battle commander and sure of himself. He is more prideful than he lets on and thinks himself clever. Margaery says he does not gamble. He is weary of risk,” Robb recounted some of what he knew of Margaery’s grandfather. “He is risking everything, moving against the Iron Throne. Whatever he is after, he is sure he will get it.”

“He has the wealth, armies, and lands. All that is left is power. He wants a Hightower to be Queen and a princess to give his family dragons. I will not give him either,” Jon declared before drinking from his horn. “Some would say a good king would compromise for peace.”

“A peace that would not last,” Robb decided. _Another House with dragons would destroy the Realm._ “The Hightowers want dragonriders, the Faith Militant want to destroy your House and anyone who does not pray to the Seven, and the Starry Sept is caught in the middle. Their interests are aligned, but they are not the same. Turn them against each other before a war can be had.”

“There isn’t time for that. Varys has his spies in the Hightower and the Starry Sept, but none of them are in a position of influence. I sent a trusted knight south with one hundred men to track the Faith Militant’s leaders and their movements. Their numbers grow by the day, smallfolk from Oldtown and lands south of Highgarden. They have enough to form an army. An undisciplined army, but still an army,” Jon informed him with a disappointed look.

“I will call my banners when the time comes. Lord Wyman’s fleet is large enough to ferry eight thousand men south before it is…,” Robb said his plans before Jon cut in.

“The war will be over before your men can reach the Sunset Sea,” Jon proclaimed. _He means to strike hard and fast with the dragons._

“Why then, do you need my counsel?” Robb asked.

“Because I must ask you if I should do what is right or what is wise. I could have Lord Leyton arrested the moment he sets foot inside King’s Landing and take his head for treason. Or, I can wait and let him come to me with his offers. It is a risk, letting him and his family involve themselves at court. I could be mistaken, allowing them to strengthen their position here with all the lords of the Seven Kingdoms here for the tourney. We have witnesses who will testify to his sons’ crimes and the crimes of the Most Devout, but I lack the evidence to find Lord Leyton guilty,” Jon answered with a clear bitter taste in his mouth. _You lack the evidence for a fair trial._

“Other kings would not hold a fair trial. Some would not hold one at all, but you are not other kings. You told me once there are eyes and ears in these walls. Use them and let Lord Leyton hang himself. Do what is right, what is hard. I can see it, you have already decided what you will do. Are your children aware of everything?” Robb asked as he turned to watch Prince Jon and Princess Daenerys dance together.

“They are,” Jon confirmed what Robb had suspected.

“Then they will be careful around the Hightowers and we will watch out for them. Do not worry, they are smart for their age,” Robb assured his cousin. _They are also in love and devoted to one another. Let that be their strength that holds them together._

“How will Margaery take it? She will lose her grandfather and an uncle or two,” Jon asked, failing to mention a number of Margaery’s cousins who were sure to lose their heads.

“He betrayed her when he lent his support to the Faith Militant. Allyria’s letters told us what they have preached in Oldtown. There is no place for the old gods or those who pray to them in their world. She is the mother of four northern children,” Robb said, wondering if Margaery would offer to swing the sword.

Through the next half dozen songs, they spoke of the Red Keep and Winterfell, their children, and marriage. When Jon began to speak of Rhaenys, Robb saw the Queen frequently looking to them with an expectant look. After her fifth glance in their direction, Jon said, “It’s best I return. I promised her a dance.”

“I’ll go with you. I promised Margaery another dance as well,” Robb said, hoping Margaery would prefer to return to their bedchambers in Maegor’s Holdfast.

**Lady Ashara Stark**

Ashara bid herself entry to the familiar chambers that were once her own. Now they belonged to two queens. Much of it looked the same, only finer and more suited to royalty. The chairs and sofas in the great solar remained where she had left them, but the walls were covered with tapestries and paintings telling the histories of Houses Targaryen, Stark, and Martell.

Greeted by an empty solar, she crossed the room to find her friends on the terrace. Along her way, Ashara recognized many of the decorations Lyanna and Elia had collected on their journey from Qarth to Lys. There was a golden sun Elia had found in Jon’s Qartheen manse and the silver wolf Lyanna had been gifted by a Volantene noble spared from the butchery.

“Forgive me. Rodrik likes a good story and he always hears them until their end,” Ashara said as she found her seat across the fire from her friends. Lyanna and Elia were themselves, huddled together in their silk chemises, keeping one another warm. “I take it Lady Catelyn will not be joining us?”

“You do not have to feign disappointment with us, Ashara. My good-sister is a dull and cruel woman. I pity my nephew’s children, especially the girls. Alys, she is too proper,” Lyanna said what Ashara was afraid to. A part of her decided it was best to leave her feelings in the past. _I should hold my tongue. Ned is gone. Benjen is still here, with me._

“There is hope with the little one, Jocelyn. She reminds me of a certain girl from the North…,” Elia said with a grin playing on her lips while she sipped on a Dornish red.

“That girl was worse,” Ashara jested, earning Elia’s laughter and Lyanna’s admonishing glare. “What? Benjen tells me stories. If little Jocelyn Stark is half the terror, I pray for the Winterfell stableboys.”

“My brother does not seem to take his vows of secrecy as seriously as some. I have some stories I could tell,” Lyanna said as Zokla padded onto the terrace. The direwolf always looked at others with suspicion, but he curled up at Lyanna and Elia’s feet without so much as looking in Ashara’s direction. “Where is my brother?”

“He said he was going for a walk when I left our chambers, but I know what that means. You can be sure he will find his place somewhere along the walls of the Red Keep. He does the same at Highgarden,” Ashara answered before sipping on her cup of Dornish wine. _This is a good vintage…from the Tor._ “When we were first wed, I would wake in the middle of the night to an empty bed. One night, I followed him to the parapets and he just stood there for hours. I feared he missed the Nights Watch, as absurd as that sounds, but I did.”

“My foolish little brother,” Lyanna said, shaking her head with amusement and scorn. “Did you tell him there are no wildlings in the Reach?”

“There are no wildings north of the Wall either…not anymore anyways. You should have smacked him and told him to stay with you in bed,” Elia added.

“Perhaps you have a point. My husband never disobeys an order,” Ashara mused as she realized he had never once refused her anything. “No, I asked him about his nightly walks. He said it is a habit that is hard to break. Sleep is something foreign to him, or at least is was at Castle Black. It has gotten better.”

“And how are things with Olenna?” Elia inquired with a humorous look about her face.

“I have learned, with time, thorns become less prickly,” Ashara said. When she first settled at Highgarden, Ashara found herself a foe in Lady Olenna Tyrell. The matriarch of House Tyrell always looked upon her with suspicion and never missed a chance to trade barbs with her. She found the lady’s witty words tiresome, but the distrust that laid between them waned in the two years after she returned from the North.

“That, or you have grown some thorns of your own,” Elia countered. _Perhaps…I pray not._

“And why did she not come? Her great-grandchildren have made it all the way from Winterfell and she remains at Highgarden? Time is not on her side,” Lyanna said.

“She cannot control Willas as she could Mace. I think she wants to rule her castle one last time,” Ashara said, thinking on Olenna Tyrell’s motivations.

“I almost pity her then,” Elia said. When Ashara raised an eyebrow in suspicion, Elia continued, “Almost.”

Ashara had nothing more to say regarding Olenna Tyrell. With an entire cask of wine left to share with Elia and Lyanna, they returned to their cups and spent most of their time speaking of their grandchildren. She told her friends of her rides through the orchards with Elys and sailing down the Mander with Serena on the pleasure boats. When they asked about Arthur and Rodrik, she recounted tales of their mischief in the groves of Highgarden and their eagerness to impress their father in the training yard.

When Elia spoke of Ashara’s namesake, she learned the little princess had changed little since she last visited King’s Landing. Princess Ashara was certainly beautiful, inheriting Queen Rhaenys’ features, but she also inherited her mother’s disinterest in swordplay and hunting. Her namesake did not seem the adventurous sort given what Ashara had learned from her friends and what she had seen in her short time in King’s Landing. _But she is unafraid to fly and she has her egg. She will be no ordinary princess. None of them will be._

Once Elia and Lyanna were finished telling Ashara everything about their grandchildren they could not write on a simple raven scroll, she felt like her head was spinning. There were so many of the princes and princesses, it was difficult to remember it all and the wine certainly did not help matters. Before it was all lost to forgotten memories, Ashara set her cup aside.

“Much of this city has changed, and yet, so much of it hasn’t,” Ashara said after standing from her chair and going to the balustrade. The Great Sept of Baelor was gone, its ruins replaced by the Dragonhall and its red marble stone glowing from the great braziers at its walls. The streets and alleys of the city were even cleaner than they were during Rhaegar’s reign.

“The buildings and streets have changed, the people have not,” Lyanna reminded her of the nature of the smallfolk. “Peace and order have returned to King’s Landing, but it is not certain to last. A long winter, failing harvests, disease, war, the Faith…any of them could undo all my son has righted. Sometimes, when I see them along the streets, cheering for their King and Queens and House Targaryen…I hate them. I want to see them all burn. I remember hearing how they cheered for Joffrey, then Tommen after him. And after all Rhaegar did for them?”

“They aren’t all terrible,” Ashara said without having to teach Lyanna what life was like for the smallfolk. Most of them cared little for the game played between kings and lords. Most just prayed for a plentiful harvest or enough coin to feed their children. _But I will not defend those who supported the Sparrows and now the Faith Militant._

“I know,” Lyanna replied somberly.

“You still have not asked me about the Hightowers and the Faith,” Ashara finally found the bravery to say what she had been thinking since she set foot inside the Red Keep. A part of her was afraid her friends were skeptical of her allegiances and that of Allyria’s.

“What is there to ask that Allyria has not already told our children? You are our oldest and truest friend. If you think your loyalty is in question, you are mistaken,” Elia assured her with a gentle hand resting over her own. “And besides, we have little to do with the ruling of the Realm. I trust Jon and Rhaenys and Visenya and Daenerys with this matter.”

“Do they question Allyria’s loyalty?” Ashara dared to ask, praying the King and Queens still thought of Allyria as a sister.

“Of course not! She is their sister in all but name,” Lyanna vehemently answered.

“And before you ask, your daughter’s husband is trusted, so there is no need for worry,” Elia lifted a weight off Ashara’s shoulders with her words. After years of bearing witness to Elia and Lyanna at court, she could see it in her friends’ eyes and hear it in their voices. _They speak truthfully. I must pray Jon has spoken truthfully with them._

Ashara spent another hour on her old terrace with Lyanna and Elia before she retired for the night. It felt strange, leaving her chambers behind in search of her guest chambers on the floor below. _I suppose a part of me still considers this home._

The journey back to her chambers was an uneventful one until she reached the spiraling stairs. The hallway outside Lyanna and Elia’s chambers was silent as a crypt. Unsullied stood guard between each doorway. Her footsteps and those of the two small direwolves padding down the hallway were the only things to disturb the quiet before she heard the laughter of a girl.

Halfway down the stairs, Ashara stumbled across Prince Aegon and Princess Nymeria. Neither noticed her presence until it was too late and both their faces bloomed a bright red. Aegon had one hand in his sister’s dark brown hair and the other firmly underneath her dress, squeezing a breast. When their lips parted, Nymeria looked ready to run off while Aegon only seemed angered with Ashara’s presence.

“Prince Aegon. Princess Nymeria,” Ashara acknowledged both of them and continued on with her march toward her chambers, pretending she had seen nothing. The moment they were out of sight and Ashara reached her floor, the laughter and kisses continued. _They remind me of Egg and Rhaenys. Better I not ever say that._

Upon opening the door to her chambers, everything appeared as she had left it. Her solar was dark without candlelight, making it difficult to navigate her way round the tables and chairs to the unfamiliar bedchamber. The moonlight shining upon the balcony outside the solar and the lights of the city beyond provided little help.

Once she stumbled into a door, Ashara pushed her way through to the bedchamber. Three of the candles between the balcony and her bed were still aflame, providing just enough light so she could go to her wardrobe. She slid the shoulders off her Dornish dress easily enough so that it could pool at her feet. Naked as her first nameday, Ashara’s eyes searched for a chemise, but she decided it was not worth the effort to find one. King’s Landing was warm and her bed sheets were more than enough to protect her from cool winds.

Ashara had forgotten the dress still pooled around her feet and turned too quickly for her bed. She felt clumsy and foolish as she fell until a pair of strong arms saved her. _How did I not hear him come in?_

“I’ve got you,” Benjen whispered against her ear with one firm and calloused hand resting just below a breast and the other upon her navel. She found her feet again with his assistance. Between his laughter, he asked, “Are you drunk?”

“Maybe a little,” Ashara confessed before turning around to look upon his face. She always thought he should look tired after his walks alone, but he never did. The years at Castle Black and his time beyond the Wall had hardened him, but not so much as to keep her away. As she fiddled with his jerkin, she asked, “Did any wildlings attempt to climb the walls?”

“No, there were no wildlings, only myself and his Grace,” Benjen laughed at her jest while she discarded his jerkin and started on his tunic.

“Just his Grace?” she inquired.

“A king is never alone. Your brother was there. Samwell Tarly and Dolorous Edd as well,” Benjen answered, staring down at her with his Stark grey eyes. It was then she just realized it was Benjen she thought of when she saw those eyes and no longer Ned.

“The Night’s Watch of King’s Landing…Do they make you swear away women?” Ashara jested as she threw away his belt and pulled down his breeches.

“If they did, I wasn’t listening,” Benjen whispered in his northern accent before claiming her lips. Their kiss only lasted so long before her teasing hands were too much for his hard cock. Before she could leap into his arms and wrap her legs around his waist, his hands found her ass and lifted her off the ground.

Slowly, they found their bed after a few short, but passionate kisses. Benjen was careful as he always was and gently laid her upon the bed. Ashara kept her legs open for him with her fingers pleasuring her pearl, telling him she needed him inside her.

“Have I told you how beautiful you are?” Benjen asked as his eyes drank in the sight of her fingering her wet cunt.

“Don’t tell me, show me,” Ashara demanded with impatience evident in her voice. Benjen took the hint and seized her hips, pulling her to the edge of the bed so he could make love to her.

“Benjen…,” Ashara moaned as his cock parted her folds and her fingers abandoned her clit to fist the silk sheets around her. Her once shy and inexperienced lover was now a confident and dutiful husband who more than satisfied her needs. The rest of the night was filled with passion and the love they shared for one another. Ashara was exhausted and thoroughly fucked by the time she rested her head on her husband’s chest to find her sleep.

**Princess Rhaella Targaryen**

She carefully inspected the looking glass that stood taller than herself and decided everything was perfect. Rhaella wore her favorite dress, styled in the fashion of the Crownlands and sewn by the finest seamstresses in the Realm. After her finger smoothed away one remaining wrinkle in her skirts, her eyes shifted from her violet dress to the pearls around her neck. Her sister Nymeria accompanied her through the city’s market one day and paid the jeweler for the necklace, a gift she would always cherish.

When she was done fiddling with the pearls, Rhaella turned her head back and forth, looking for any imperfections in the intricate braids Vithi had woven. Her own handmaidens always tried their best, but they were only lowborn girls from Westeros. Vithi and the other Dothraki handmaidens were saved for her mothers and oldest sisters, until this morning. Without a hair out of place, Rhaella imagined herself with a dragon and a prince of her own, only she could not see his face.

It was only the sounds of the castle and city outside her windows that tore Rhaella from her dream. The sun was still rising, but high enough to compel her to leave her chambers. Every morning, before any lessons with the maesters or one of the septons, Rhaella made her way to the training yards. It was there she could find her brothers and cheer them on as they sparred.

Just after she slipped from her bedchambers, through her small solar, and into the hallway, Rhaella found herself face to face with her mother and sister Arya. Her mother was accompanied by Brienne of Tarth, six household guard, and Snow. None of that seemed strange, but Arya’s presence was peculiar. _Why is she with Mother? She should be sparring with Dany and Rhaegar and…_

“Where are you off to?” her mother, Queen Daenerys, demanded with a warning look.

“The training yards…or the gardens. Daeron says Rhaegar and Jon try to keep them guessing,” Rhaella answered, wondering if her mother was cross with her.

“Aren’t you forgetting something?” her mother asked with a raised eyebrow. _What have I forgotten? My slippers? No. What did I…_

“Our cousins,” Arya answered for her. _How could I forget?_

Rhaella had already befriended Nymella Martell, Elys Tyrell, and Serena Tyrell. The three of them had arrived days before after travelling up the Rose Road from Highgarden. Nymella and Serena were kind and shared her interests in dresses and songs and tales of chivalrous knights. Elys was just as kind, yet there was something different about her that set her apart. It took two days filled with ladylike activities for Rhaella to figure out Elys was more like her sister Lyarra, preferring riding than trying on new dresses.

“Alys and Amanda,” her mother affirmed, stepping closer with Snow at her side. Rhaella leapt back when her mother’s direwolf attempted to lick her cheek. “Your sisters are already with them. Remember, they are your family. They do not know this castle or the city.”

“But I promised Daeron…,” Rhaella tried to explain herself to no avail.

“Your brother can fight without your support. Go and find your cousins. I believe they are waiting outside your Aunt Arianne’s chambers,” her mother instructed her. _But he needs me._ With a glare, her mother continued, “Rhaella.”

Just as her mother promised, her sisters and cousins were waiting on the floor below. The highest levels of Maegor’s Holdfast belonged to House Targaryen, but the fourth highest floor was saved for the most important and powerful lords of the Realm. Houses Stark, Velaryon, Baratheon, Martell, Tyrell, Arryn, Tully, and Lannister were given these quarters.

“Then we can go to the kitchens. They have pigeon pie, lemon cakes, and…Rhaella!” Vaella went on until Rhaella joined her cousins and sisters. Alysanne seemed just as pleased as her twin to be leading their cousins through the Red Keep. Surprisingly, Allyria stood with them instead of sparring with Lyarra or Torrhen.

“Your dress…it’s so beautiful,” Alys Stark said with eyes full of awe and envy.

“Thank you, dear cousin. Yours is beautiful as well,” Rhaella returned the compliment, though Alys’ face disagreed. With the hope of cheering up her cousin, she continued, “It is true. Our sister, Senya, she prefers northern dresses.”

“Even at court?” Alys asked with a look of disbelief written on her face.

“At court, Dragonstone, Summerhall…,” Rhaella confirmed.

“I told you not to worry,” Amanda Arryn said, nudging Alys’ shoulder. Her Stark and Arryn cousins had only known one another for a moon, yet they seemed as close as twin sisters. If Jocelyn had jested with Alys, Rhaella was sure the eldest Stark would not return the cheerful smile she shared with Amanda.

“Can we hurry? I do not want to miss our brothers spar,” Elys Tyrell asked impatiently.

“Aye,” Allyria agreed.

“Do they follow you everywhere?” Alys asked as they began their trek toward the spiraling stairs at the end of the corridor. With a short glance over her shoulder, Rhaella realized her cousin was referring to their shadows.

“Only during the King’s Tourney or when the castle is filled with many guests,” Rhaella answered, realizing their presence no longer bothered her as much as it once did. _But why do we even need them? The Red Keep is safe and there is peace in the Realm._

“We always have guards when we leave the castle. Do not be frightened by the Unsullied. What they say of them is all lies. They are kind,” Alysanne added, hurrying with Amanda to walk beside them.

“We can try and lose them again,” Vaella whispered before sprinting past them with Nymella and Elys. They had tried to lose their guard two days past and failed, but it was fun. Vaella’s temptation was too much to resist and Rhaella pulled Alys with her to race down the spiraling stairs of Maegor’s Holdfast.

Rhaella and her sisters were supposed to show Alys Stark and Amanda Arryn the Red Keep, but they did not care to bother with Maegor’s Holdfast. The holdfast was mostly bedchambers, solars, halls, and offices, great and minor alike. Vaella led them down floor after floor and Rhaella did not stop her. Running from their guards was too much fun and she expected her cousins would learn their way around the holdfast without their help.

Their attempt at escape failed the same as before. They never truly lost their guards. They were too small and the Unsullied too quick. Descending the stairs was easy, but running through the corridors of the ground floor and out into the lower bailey was tiresome. At Alysanne’s urging, they abandoned their flight and resumed their graceful march through the Red Keep.

Once outside the confines of Maegor’s Holdfast, Rhaella turned her cousins around so they could look upon the great structure. She pointed to the windows, balconies, and terraces she could see, naming who they belonged to. Amanda Arryn asked about the tower that stood between the holdfast and the sea, connected only by a small bridge. Rhaella told her cousin of the White Sword Tower and who lived there.

After she and her sisters named the towers of Maegor’s Holdfast that remained, Rhaella led her cousins past the entrance to the royal gardens and toward the barracks. The Targaryen household guard and a significant contingent of the Unsullied quartered in the barracks that once held the City Watch. Laying between the serpentine stairs and a stretch of the northern wall, the barracks’ roof peaked nearly twenty feet higher than the ramparts. Beside the barracks stood a lesser building where the cooks, servants, stableboys, and other castle folk quartered.

The sun still hung low in the sky, but the castle was alive. Kitchen servants started their trek toward the kitchens, Unsullied stood with their spears atop the ramparts, Grandmaester Pylos led the other maesters to the library, a fat lord from the Reach bellowed orders for his squire to ready a horse, and a Braavosi magister walked down the serpentine stairs with Lord Davos Seaworth. It was the same as any other day, only the souls inside the castle walls were tenfold.

No one came to or from the barracks, but that was not unusual. The soldiers inside the Red Keep were the King’s most disciplined men. When they were not standing at their posts, they were either in the training yards or residing in the barracks.

“There is the Maidenvault. Baelor the Blessed kept his sisters there and did not let them leave. It is connected to the Royal Sept, but the septons and septas are the only ones who pray there, I think,” Rhaella said, pointing to building that loomed over the serpentine steps.

“Baelor never let them leave?” Alys asked.

“Never,” Rhaella confirmed what she remembered.

“Why?” Alys inquired with hesitant eyes staring up at the Maidenvault.

“I do not think he liked them,” Rhaella told her cousin what she could. _Father, Mother, the maesters, they never said why…I should ask Grandmother Lyanna._

“He sounds cruel. Why did they call him the Blessed? I thought he was kind and devout,” Alys continued with her questions.

“Dany says he was a weak and foolish King,” Vaella added without providing their older sister’s reasoning. _And Mother says no true dragon would bow to the Seven._

When they reached the last of the serpentine steps, Rhaella meant to lead her cousins to the Royal Sept and the Maidenvault until the cheers and the song of steel rang through the Middle Bailey. Curiosity led her around the armory to a small corner of the bailey, beneath one of the many watchtowers that stood upon the outer walls. The crowd that had formed between the armory and kennels obstructed any view of the fighters.

“Are they knights?” Alys asked as they followed close behind one of their Unsullied protectors.

“No,” Rhaella said, knowing a spar between two knights was not enough to draw dozens of onlookers so early in the morning.

“Prince Eddard!” Cyrenna Connington yelled as she stood beside Joanna Tudbury and Sybelle Musgood. Cyrenna, only a year younger than Eddard, was far more beautiful than her friends. Her eyes were as blue as the sea and her blonde mane fell in curls down her back. _I should warn Senya. She likes our brother. I know it._

“Prince Valarr!” Rhaella heard another maiden cry her brother’s name, only this time, the voice was Dornish. She thought to find her brother’s admirer, but decided against it. _He kisses Daenys every time I see them. This Dornish girl can’t be brave enough to try and steal him._

“It’s your brothers. Valarr and Eddard!” Amanda said the obvious as they followed their guard through the crowd. Trusting their Unsullied to cut a path through the lords, maidens, knights, stableboys, pages, and squires, Rhaella pulled Alys with her until they reached the outer wall. There she saw Daeron, Maekar, Robb, Torrhen, Brynden Stark, Orrys Baratheon, and Jon Dayne.

“Brothers,” Rhaella greeted Maekar and Robb before rushing to her twin brother’s side. She did not have any words for Daeron, instead nudging her shoulder against his. He hardly noticed at first, his focus saved entirely for Valarr and Eddard’s spar. When she nudged his side a second time, he turned his head and graced her with a smile. “Did I miss your spar?”

“No, Brynden and I go after Robb and Maekar, and some of the others,” Daeron said, nodding to a few boys closer to Eddard and Valarr’s age.

“Be merciful,” Rhaella whispered in her brother’s ear. Most boys of ten years looked like fools holding a sword and appeared even less impressive when they began to swing one. Daeron was different. Rhaella knew nothing about fighting, but she was not blind to the difference between his skills and that of his peers. After a quick glance toward Brynden, she continued, “He is family. Do not embarrass him if he isn’t any good.”

“I won’t,” Daeron promised. She knew he was true when he looked into her eyes. When Daeron lied, he would avoid her gaze and more often than not, look down at his feet.

“Cousin, is it always like this, with everyone watching?” Alys inquired, blissfully overwhelmed by the spectacle of it all. At the feast, her Stark cousin giddily spoke of knights and court and chivalry.

“Sometimes…not usually,” Rhaella answered as her eyes turned to her older brothers. Eddard was surefooted and strong in his defense while Valarr was quick and graceful with his strikes. Parry after parry, the spar continued, earning more cheers from the crowd that encircled the makeshift training yard.

“They are so quick,” Amanda Arryn observed as Eddard fell to the ground and quickly recovered to block a downward blow from Valarr.

“But they are holding back,” Elys Tyrell added, surprising Rhaella that she knew the truth. _She must practice with a sword. Not even I can tell._ Seeing Alys and Amanda’s scrunched faces, Elys continued, “What? It’s smart…and obvious. Father and Uncle Benjen always tell us to save your best moves when many are watching. And Eddard, he has missed several chances to hit Valarr.”

“Our father says the same! The Kingsguard too!” Torrhen claimed, standing behind them with Allyria. Her little sister’s ears perked up when she realized Elys shared her interest in swordplay.

After the spar ended with Eddard victorious, Gerion Bar Emmon and Merrell Hayford took their turn in the yard. Neither were as good as her brothers, but they were not terrible. Their spar met a quick end when Gerion pushed his advantage and sent Merrell stumbling backwards until his clumsy feet tripped over themselves.

Rhaella cheered for both the victor and the defeated. Gerion was kind, his presence common at court, and a friend to her eldest brothers. Merrell was a distant nephew to Lord Olyvar Hayford and a stranger to her, but she cheered for him nevertheless. The Hayfords were loyal bannermen and her parents always spoke highly of their honor.

As soon as Gerion helped Merrell find his feet, a son of House Follard and Larence Serry took their place. After Serry made quick work of the Follard boy, Rhaella did her best to name every soul in the yard for Amanda and Alys. There was Lord Luthor Inchfield, Ser Talbert Rosby, Ser Dalton Stokeworth, and Lord Ellard Cressey. Rhaella confessed she knew none of the squires or pages standing with their lords and knights. The faces she knew best were Lynesse Manning, Bethany Thorne, Marya Thorne, Mya Buckwell, Melantha Byrch, and Aemma Chelsted, all from the Crownlands.

While Harmon Myatt, son of Ser Erich Myatt, fought Gilyn Redwyne, Rhaella introduced her Arryn and Stark cousins to the girls from the Crownlands. Both Alys and Amanda acquainted themselves well with Lynesse and each of the ladies who followed her. The Thorne sisters had the most questions for Alys and Amanda, asking what it was like to live in the cold North or the mountains of the Vale.

Rhaella caught the aftermath of Gilyn Redwyne’s defeat. His nose was bloodied and he did not take kindly to Harmon Myatt’s prideful grin. It took two of Gilyn’s brothers to hold him back from chasing after Harmon, amusing all who watched.

Once the Redwynes had abandoned the yard, Robb and Maekar formed pairs with Jon Dayne and Orrys Baratheon. Orrys looked clumsy with his boiled leather and antlered helm, but no one could say he wasn’t brave as he charged toward Jon Dayne. Daeron had told her their Dornish cousin was almost as skilled as himself, being only a year younger than themselves. She saw the truth in her brother’s words the moment Jon sidestepped Orrys and struck the back of his helm with his wooden sword.

Despite adding her voice to her cousins’ cheers of encouragement, it did nothing to aid Orrys in his helpless cause. _He is too little and too young. Another year and he will be better._

Unlike their kin, Robb and Maekar were set against each other in an evenly matched battle. Neither brother held back, using all they had learned from their father and the Kingsguard. They were not nearly as skilled as Eddard and Valarr, but they had strong spirits and steely determination. Where their brothers planned their strikes three moves ahead, Robb and Maekar still fought in the moment, acting purely on instinct.

“I’m next,” Daeron declared, seconds before Maekar put Robb on the ground. While everyone cheered, Rhaella followed her twin to the weapons rack where he had stowed his personal practice sword. As he reacquainted himself with the balance of the wooden sword, Rhaella inspected his leather armor and made sure his boots were laced. _I won’t let you trip and embarrass yourself._

“Good luck,” Rhaella said, leaving a peck on her brother’s cheek before he donned his helm and joined Brynden Stark at the center of the yard. Alys and Amanda cheered Brynden’s name as Daeron approached, compelling Rhaella to do the same for her brother. “Daeron! Dragonstone!”

Brynden struck first, lifting his sword high in the air before bringing it down upon Daeron’s waiting block. Unfazed and sure of himself, Brynden pressed his attack with side strikes and high blows meant to overwhelm Daeron. None of it worked on Daeron, as Rhaella had seen a thousand times before. _Poor Brynden…he is falling into his trap._

To most, Rhaella was sure it looked like Brynden was going to win with strength and his marginally greater reach. For a moment, she even thought her northern cousin might win. Daeron was not one to let a spar last long, preferring to end a battle when opportunity arose. _Did he think I meant for him to lose?_

“Seven hells!” Brynden cursed the second he felt Daeron’s wooden blade upon his throat. His tired swing had missed Daeron’s helm. Rhaella watched with pride as Daeron displayed his speed and skill, ducking his head beneath a coming blow. Once the sword had missed, Daeron rushed forth to gently press his own sword upon Brynden’s skin, claiming victory.

“Daeron!” Rhaella yelled as she ran into his open arms. He smelled of sweat, boiled leather, fire, and dirt, but she did not care. She always hugged him after his victories, even his losses, which were still many when he fought their eldest brothers. “You fought well and you listened.”

“Did I wait long enough?” he whispered so only she could hear.

“I think so. Everyone else thought Brynden had a chance,” Rhaella said.

“He was good, better than most,” Daeron decided as he watched Brynden walk toward to weapons rack with his head hanging low in defeat. 

“Go tell him he fought well,” Rhaella instructed her twin, knowing it was what her parents would want. With a nod and a squeeze of her hands, Daeron bid her farewell and marched after their cousin.

“I thought we were going to the gardens,” Serena Tyrell complained when Rhaella returned to her sisters and cousins.

“We are, but first we must show Amanda and Alys their way around the castle,” Rhaella tried to calm an impatient Serena while Elys rolled her eyes at her sister.

With their guards once again at their side, Rhaella and her sisters led the way toward the Maidenvault. Alys was impressed with the Royal Sept and its many painted windows, saying it was far mor elegant and beautiful than the small sept in Winterfell. Rhaella tried, but could not remember the sept at Winterfell. Truthfully, she knew the inside of the Royal Sept little more than Winterfell’s. The godswood was her chosen place for prayer.

Alysanne and Vaella showed Alys and Amanda through the Maidenvault, naming every room and what they remembered of its history. Along their way, they came across many lords and ladies leaving their guest chambers, surely on their way to break their fast in the Great Hall or speak with the King and Queens in the Throne Room. Alys introduced them to three granddaughters of Lord Wyman Manderly and Amanda called over a grandson of Lady Waynwood so they could meet.

After exploring every inch of the Maidenvault without sneaking into any of the guest chambers, they made their way across the bailey to the library. Rhaella thought it empty until they spied Aemon and Naerys cuddled against a window looking out onto the godswood. At Vaella’s urging, they left them alone and retreated to the Middle Bailey.

Remembering the stables and kennels, Rhaella pointed both out before lifting her skirts and making for the Tower of the Hand. She thought to climb the stairs and introduce her cousins to the Hand of the King, but the Seaworth guards informed them Lord Davos was elsewhere. That saddened Rhaella and her sisters. Davos Seaworth was a kind man who always brought them gifts and felt like the closest thing they had to a grandfather besides Lord Monford Velaryon.

A brief walk through the outer yard came after they left the Tower of the Hand. Knights on horseback were leaving the Red Keep through the main gate while a company of Unsullied from the Dragonpit entered in their orderly march. Rhaella decided there was little there for her cousins to see.

Avoiding the crowded Entrance Hall and the jammed corridors outside the Throne Room, Rhaella headed for another set of doors along the western side of the keep that comprised the Great Hall, Throne Room, Small Council chambers, many small halls, and dozens of offices for members of court. Unlike the beginning of their journey, they crossed paths with only guards and servants on the way to the kitchens.

“Rhaella, are you and….,” Amanda spoke softly, too afraid to finish her question.

“Don’t be afraid to ask me anything. You are family,” Rhaella said as she entwined her arm with Amanda’s.

“Are you and Daeron betrothed?” Amanda questioned her after a quick glance over both their shoulders.

“Me and Daeron? No,” Rhaella hurried the words from her mouth faster than she meant.

“I didn’t mean to offend. It’s just…well, you two are so close and…He is a prince and you are a princess. And your House…,” Amanda replied with a worried look in her blue eyes.

“He is my brother,” Rhaella offered the only defense she could think of. _He is my brother? That isn’t a reason. Why did I say that?_

“So, he isn’t promised to you?” Amanda inquired with something in her eyes that looked like hope. Rhaella could not explain why, but something in her heart told her to break that hope. _Daeron deserves a perfect lady. You just met him. You do not know his favorite knight or his favorite dragon or his first kill on a hunt or his best sparring move or his favorite place on Dragonstone or his…_

“No,” she confirmed, cursing herself for telling the truth. Rhaella did not know why, but she knew she had to lie to her cousin. Amanda was sweet and beautiful with her perfect auburn hair, but she was not good enough for Daeron. “I heard my father speaking with my mothers once. He said Daeron was to be betrothed to a girl from the Dornish Marches. I did not hear her name.”

“Oh,” Amanda nearly whispered as her shoulders shrunk and her eyes fell to the marble floor ahead of them.

Nymella was the first to sneak into the kitchens and the cooks called for her to leave until Rhaella entered with her sisters. After many apologies, the cooks fed them lemon cakes, pigeon pie, apple cake, breads with cheese and jellies, and various other sweets she did not bother to taste. All of it was good, but Rhaella found herself staring at the door, waiting for someone else to join them.

Chaos was what Rhaella thought of the kitchens with servants and cooks coming and going. But every time she thought a cook was ready to stumble into a servant carrying off a platter of pies, disaster was avoided and everyone knew their place. In order to stay out of the fray, Rhaella stood around a small table in the far corner of the great kitchen, near the storeroom holding the breads.

Over a table full of sweets, Amanda recounted what it was like to experience a feast at the Eyrie. All of it sounded nice to Rhaella and there did not seem to be any courses in the Eyrie they did not serve in King’s Landing. It had been four years since Rhaella visited the great castle in the mountains, but she could not remember anything of the feast. She remembered how high the castle stood and how their dragons flew even higher.

Alys’ stories of Winterfell and its Great Hall stood in stark contrast to Amanda’s tales of the Eyrie and feasts at Gulltown and the Redfort. Her cousins never went hungry or wanted for anything, but even for highborn in the North, Rhaella gathered life was not as easy as it was for those south of the Neck. Seemingly simple pleasures such as pigeon pies, chocolates, berry tarts, or even peaches were not easy to come by for her Stark cousins. It made Rhaella happy to see Alys enjoy what she never thought twice about. _We should bring Jocelyn here on the morrow._

An hour passed before they fled the kitchens for the royal gardens. They did not make it far before Alys’ direwolf found them. Rose was not a fully grown direwolf, but Rhaella still envied her cousin. Rhaella’s eldest siblings had direwolves and dragons. _I don’t even have a dragon egg…_

Through the gardens, the white-grey direwolf padded alongside them until they reached a pavilion with a clear view of Blackwater Bay. Underneath the shingled roof covered with vines sat her mothers Rhaenys and Visenya, her aunts, Lady Mya Redfort, Lady Jeyne Cassel, and Lady Aemma Velaryon. When Rhaella reached the shade underneath the pavilion, she determined the ladies had just finished a meal with empty and half-empty plates filling the table between them.

“Where is your brother and sister? Maelor and Elia?” Queen Rhaenys asked after demanding a hug from Rhaella.

“You know how they are, Mother,” Rhaella huffed. She never liked how Maelor and Elia preferred staying to themselves and her mother seemed to agree with a shake of her head.

“On the morrow, your sister will join you and your cousins. She will not have a choice,” her mother assured her. “Now tell me, did you show them the castle? Did you introduce them to your friends?”

“I did, but we did not see everyone. Cassandra Selmy asked me to visit her chambers before supper. Vaella and Alysanne already promised to come,” Rhaella answered, remembering Cassandra’s invitation for the first time since the previous night.

“She has chambers inside Maegor’s Holdfast, yes? Good, take your cousins with you. If her chambers are too small, bring them and whoever else to your solar, but not too many. The royal chambers are not an inn,” Queen Rhaenys replied.

“Yes, Mother,” Rhaella promised to do as she was told.

“Rhaella, what bothers you? It is a beautiful day, your sisters and cousins are happy, and yet…you look like you are sad,” her mother asked before placing a gentle hand upon her cheek, making things worse.

“Nothing is wrong,” Rhaella told her half-truth. She did feel sad, but she could not tell herself, much less her mother the reason. She dared not to say it, but part of her felt lonely. The feeling was a mystery.

“Well, I do not like seeing you sad. Should I send for your brother? He seems to cheer you up better than I,” Queen Rhaenys suggested, making her laugh and smile.

“No, I am fine, I promise,” Rhaella swore before turning away to join Alysanne and Vaella near the lilacs and bellflowers. _I’ll find Daeron after the feast. We can count the stars from my window and he can tell me about his training and I can warn him which girls to stay away from. So many of them are liars. They do not deserve him._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This update took longer than expected. Intended to write 10k word count, ended up w/ 20.3k. I think Robb's POV may be the single longest POV I have ever done & it could have been more. Ashara POV was a struggle. I hope Rhaella's thoughts/actions/dialogue seemed reasonable for a 10yr old character. Next chapter is finally the beginning of the tourney.
> 
> Please let me know if you have any questions, criticisms, errors, etc. Also, if you want more information on the appendix, please request it.


	11. The King's Tourney

**Princess Lyarra Targaryen**

Nearly three moons had passed since her family had returned to King’s Landing and the waiting felt like a lifetime, or so Lyarra thought. She was a young princess, but she saw the truth in the tourneys. They were for summer knights and southern lords, hoping to win glory and honor. None of it tested a man’s true mettle as she had heard her father once say, yet Lyarra always looked forward to the King’s Tourney, this year more than ever.

Just as her twin had forgotten their hunt in the Kingswood, Lyarra had forgotten it was the morning of the first day of the King’s Tourney. When her eyes fluttered open, her room was still black as night with a purple and blue sky outside her window. Dany was repeating her name over and over, much to Lyarra’s displeasure. She thought to throw one of the pillows at her sister until Dany reminded her of the day.

In a hurried rush, Lyarra leapt out of the silk sheets covering her feathered bed. Her eyes were still too sleepy to see and she paid for it, running into Dany in her race toward her wardrobe. Dany admonished Lyarra for her clumsiness, but was soon gone from her room, replaced by a pair of Dothraki maids she wished to avoid.

Before either maid could reach Lyarra, she escaped her nightgown and found the riding clothes she had set aside for the day. While her sisters would play the dutiful princesses, Lyarra would play the part of the warrior, like Dany and their mother. After the smallclothes came her black riding breeches, a pair of good travel stockings, a soft red tunic, and a black leather jerkin embroidered with small red dragons to tell strangers she was a princess of House Targaryen.

She had almost fled her room without being bothered by the maids, but she found them cutting off the escape from her bedchamber. While she was busy dressing herself, the maids saw to the candles in the room. After hearing their iron-willed insistence, Lyarra relented and allowed them to braid her hair. She contemplated lying to them and fleeing at the first chance, but decided against it. She was still half-asleep and tired from her adventures around the Red Keep with Elys Tyrell the night before.

When the Dothraki maids were finished, Lyarra’s smooth raven hair was done in a simple northern braid. Sparing only a quick glance at the looking glass, she decided she was more than presentable. There was a chance her great grandmother, Queen Rhaella, may complain of her wardrobe and hair, but Lyarra decided there was little her grandmother could do if she made it to the outer bailey before being seen.

Lyarra left her chambers with every intention of seeking out Jaehaerys, but it was he who found her. Half her family was crowded into the corridor outside her chambers, but it was her twin brother who was waiting underneath the lit torch on the sconce next to her door. Her brother looked like a true Valyrian prince with his silver curls falling to his shoulders and a pair of amethyst eyes even darker than their mother’s. Like all their brothers, Jaehaerys’ clothes were the colors of their House. His jerkin was black like her own, but there was little red to be seen. He was nearly dressed in all black, like their brother Jon preferred.

It was during her debate with Jaehaerys over the victor of the tourney, Lyarra learned they were waiting on Alysanne and Vaella. When her sisters finally graced the family with their presence, they left Maegor’s Holdfast for the outer bailey of the Red Keep. Her little sisters’ braids were just as fine and complex as their mothers’, but Lyarra did not see the purpose.

The outer bailey was even more crowded and chaotic than the hallway outside Lyarra’s chambers. Stableboys were hurrying to and from the stables, bringing one horse after another to waiting lords and knights. Captains and lieutenants of the Targaryen household guard were bellowing orders to their soldiers while servants from the kitchens brought forth wine and water to the lords and ladies who had a thirst before the ride to the tourney grounds. Amidst the chaos, Lyarra noticed the Unsullied atop the castle walls and outside the gatehouse were unmoving statues, intently focused on their duty.

Unlike the lords and ladies, neither Lyarra nor any of her family waited for the stableboys to retrieve their mounts. All of their horses were standing near the main gate with their reins held by men in black armor with the sigil of House Targaryen emblazoned upon their breastplates. Lyarra found her small black courser close to the rear of the forming column and bolted toward her surefooted steed.

Lyarra found herself praying for the sounding of the horn and the opening of the gate. She was eager to see the great camps surrounding the tourney grounds and the sights around the yard only worsened her impatience. Jaehaerys appeared to share her frustrations, shifting and twisting in his saddle, searching for any sign of their party embarking upon the slow journey to the King’s Gate.

To their relief, more lords and knights poured into the yard. Lady Catelyn Stark was climbing into a wheelhouse with Lady Margaery, Alys, and Jocelyn. Behind them followed a host of Stark men wielding white banners with the grey direwolf. Further away, deep into the yard, Lyarra could see dozens of Northern banners fluttering in the weak morning winds. There was the merman of House Manderly, the giant of House Umber, the bear of House Mormont, the longaxes of House Dustin, and many more.

After the Starks came the Martells and Tyrells. Only Elys rode out from the stables to join them, atop her white palfrey. Lyarra knew then the rest of her cousins would ride with the ladies in the wheelhouses, too worried about their pretty dresses. Dany, Elia, and Allyria were the only ones not to join their mothers and grandmothers in the wheelhouses, all donning riding attire similar to her own.

When her prayers were finally answered and the gate opened, Lyarra gently urged her courser forward to follow her brothers. She was not far behind her father, who led their slow-moving column into the city of King’s Landing. Outside the walls of the Red Keep, they were greeted by the cheers of the smallfolk. Some of the people standing on the sides of the street were held back by the men of the City Watch while others did their best to keep pace with their progress, hoping to follow them all the way through the city to the tourney grounds.

Lyarra dared not admit it to her siblings, but she pretended she was riding off to fight some great war with her father and brothers against some great army from the Shadow Lands. She thought their party was an army of sorts, ignoring the wheelhouses. Her father was the King, leading them all out of the city to fight on some distant battlefield. He was flanked by Ser Arthur Dayne and Ser Barristan Selmy, with the great lords of Westeros riding close behind. Lord Davos Seaworth, Hand of the King, was there to offer her father wise council and Lord Stannis Baratheon, Master of War, there to command where the King could not.

A King needs his Small Council, especially in a war, and Lyarra decided it was appropriate for the rest to be with them. Varys could spy on their enemy while Lord Ardrian Celtigar could pay the blacksmiths for new swords and armor. Grandfather Monford would ferry the army across the sea on his great warships while Grey Worm and Ser Jorah Mormont would serve as generals, leading the Unsullied and Targaryen armies.

With the King’s Square drawing closer, Lyarra pretended the five hundred household guard riding with them were fifty thousand and the three dozen Dothraki were a khalasar of some hundred thousand riders. In her mind, she also imagined the ten Stark banners were a hundred. She did the same for all the other houses that rode with them. _Uncle Gendry will lead the stormlords while Uncle Robb leads the northmen and free folk. Uncle Willas and Uncle Harrold will bring their knights. Uncle Edric will bring the Dornish. And Lord Lannister and Lady Greyjoy and Lord Tully can come too, I guess…_

In the midst of a crowded King’s Square, Lyarra remembered she was missing something. Her older brothers and sisters had direwolves and dragons. She had neither, only an unhatched egg. _My egg will hatch. I know it. It must. And Snow or Silver will have more pups._

Unlike her parents and eldest siblings, she could not ride a great dragon into battle nor fight beside a fearsome direwolf, but she could fight alongside her brother. Whether they fought a war in the heavy snows beyond the Wall or on some distant plain in Essos, Lyarra somehow knew Jaehaerys would be there with her. He was always there, since the day they were brought into the world.

“Is there always this many people? Are they all going to the tourney?” her cousin Elys asked as they approached the square of the King’s Gate. Masses of smallfolk line the path from the King’s Square, over Visenya’s Hill, past the Dragonhall, and onto the King’s Gate. The closer they came to the city walls, the more people Lyarra saw moving with them, headed for the tourney grounds.

“Always, every King’s Tourney,” Lyarra confirmed, though she suspected there were even more this year. “Arya says they like to watch the knights ride past in their shining armor and colorful streamers, but that can’t be true. Most knights are camped at the tourney grounds, at least the ones who enter the lists.”

“Not all of them will see the tourney. There isn’t the room,” Jaehaerys answered Elys’ second question. The smaller, less prestigious tourneys were open to the smallfolk, but even the most ordinary of King’s Tourneys did not allow for them to witness the jousts and melees. The best a baker’s son or a blacksmith’s daughter could hope to see this day were the squires’ tilts or the outer edges of the encampment.

“But they say the arena is as big as the fighting pits in Meereen,” Elys countered as they reached the final square. The King’s Gate was guarded by a hundred Unsullied sentries and half as many gold cloaks. While the City Watch kept the smallfolk out of the way, the Unsullied looked for dangers within and without the city walls.

“Who said that?” Lyarra asked, eyeing her cousin suspiciously. _Is she jesting with me? Did Arya or Dany put her up to this?_

“Hanna Fossoway. She said she was at the tourney two years ago,” Elys explained.

“She is a liar or a fool. The great fighting pits of Meereen could hold more than twenty thousand,” Lyarra said what she could remember from her lessons with the maesters or her parents’ own recollection of the Bay of Dragons.

“How many can the arena hold?” Elys inquired as they rode through the King’s Gate, out onto the fields that surrounded the city.

“I’m not sure…many,” Lyarra said, knowing the answer was not twenty thousand.

Bypassing the wharfs, ferry crossings, and the great stone bridge that spanned the Blackwater Rush, Lyarra resumed her fantasy of riding off to war with her father’s army. With the city at their backs, the royal column quickened its progress along the dirt road that ran parallel to the river. Every quarter mile, a horn blasted at the head of their column, warning the smallfolk on foot to part the road. They must have passed hundreds, young and old alike.

Lyarra saw merchants with their wares piled onto wayns headed for the tourney grounds. A Pentoshi silk merchant grumbled as they passed while a farmer from the Crownlands or Riverlands offered to sell his cart full of apples and corn. Most of the smallfolk standing on the side of the road were as cheerful as the farmer, caring nothing for the delay caused by their column. Many shouted for the King, others for the Queens, and all cheered for House Targaryen. Some yelled her siblings’ names, but she never heard her own. _One day._

The further she rode, the harder it became for Lyarra to imagine herself a warrior, riding off to war. Her eyes were too occupied, studying the faces of the boys and girls trekking toward the tourney. Some were unaccompanied while most walked with their parents. She saw two girls her own age in simple, grey roughspun dresses with red paint on their faces. It seemed their mother or some artist of sorts painted the three-headed dragon on their cheeks. The sight amused Lyarra until she soon decided such a thing was childish, meant for little children.

Apart from their temporary travelling companions along the road, Lyarra spied smallfolk going about their normal day. The morning fog that typically covered the Blackwater Rush and its embankments was gone. On her left, through the bushes and trees that separated the road from the river, Lyarra spied fishermen collecting and casting their nets. To her right, she found a shepherd tending to his sheep. Further beyond, she saw a man and his two small sons herding three dozen goats away from the road.

“Aeryn! Are you abandoning us?” Lyarra heard her older brother Brandon call out before the road veered further away from the river. She did not notice Aeryn’s eyes were fixed on the glimpses of the river that could be seen through the leaves and brush, but Brandon did.

“No!” answered a frustrated Aeryn. Her brother was fond of rivers and seas. Aeryn’s place was on the deck of a warship, Queen Rhaella once said. Lyarra could not disagree with her grandmother’s words, knowing her brother always begged to learn more from Lord Davos Seaworth, Lord Monford Velaryon, or Monterys Velaryon.

“He was just at the docks with Corlys and Victor yesterday,” Jaehaerys informed her. _Will he still love the sea when he has a dragon? He could fly as high and far as he wants. A ship can’t do that. He would be a fool._

It was another quarter mile after the road broke from the river when Lyarra saw the edge of the camp surrounding the tourney grounds. It seemed to stretch on forever, a sea of tents and banners painted in hues of gold and red, blue and green, silver and purple, yellow and black, and more. Before they even set foot on the tourney grounds, Lyarra could smell the bacon cooked over the fires and hear the sounds of a tourney coming alive. Hooves were beating into the dirt, tent flaps were being thrown open, wood cracked in the campfires, knights yelled orders to their squires, horses whinnied, flutes played, singers sang, and steel met steel.

Two Targaryen banners stood proudly between the first tents they passed, billowing in the wind to mark the beginning of the camp. Lyarra did not see any banners or shields or even men to identify the occupants of the nearest tents. She had to ride another ten yards into the camp before she saw the silver eagle of House Mallister flying on an indigo banner. A dozen men were huddled around a campfire between the indigo tents. Each of them were Seagard men, bearing some form of an eagle on their armor, shields, or jerkins.

Nearby, Lyarra’s eyes identified more men from the Riverlands. The double-headed horse of House Roote danced on green banners beside the red stallion of House Bracken. The image of the Bracken stallion on its golden shield stirred memories of a fight between men of Stone Hedge and Raventree Hall at the King’s Tourney two years before. When she failed to find black ravens flying around a dead weirwood, she judged she would not see a battle until the first melee. Lord Tytos Blackwood rode with a host of lords mixed into their party and there was little chance a Bracken knight or squire would be stupid enough to confront any Blackwood riding under the King’s banner.

As they pressed further into the camp, Lyarra learned they were still surrounded by sigils belonging to the riverlords. On one side, she could see the acorns of House Smallwood fluttering on yellow banners beside the quartered white and black banners of House Vance. _Why are there dragons on their banners? I should ask Grandmaester Pylos or Aemon. Yes, Aemon would know._ When the two knights from Acorn Hall saw them pass, they stopped what they were doing while a squire in Vance colors went to one knee. Lyarra tried her best to stifle her laughter.

“House Terrick,” Jaehaerys said when he caught Lyarra staring at the purple and gold tent pitched beside their path. At the colorful tent’s center flew a banner with four hawks, two gold and the others purple. Lyarra soon realized she was gawking like her sisters Lyanna or Rhaenys would at a knight in pristine silver armor and turned her eyes away. _I am a dragon, not some golden rose from the south._

Afraid she had spoken her thoughts, Lyarra twisted in her saddle to find Elys Tyrell watching a squire beneath the white banners of House Lolliston trying his best to coral his knight’s horse. Her cousin did not hear her thoughts and Lyarra was thankful for it. Elys was her friend and loved all the things Lyarra loved.

“I know these banners!” Elys declared with the knights of the Riverlands behind them and the knights of the Reach surrounding them. Lyarra knew the black thunderbolts on orange for Leygood, the white weasel on black for Varner, the black cross for Norcross, the red fox and blue flowers for Florent, and the quartered silver chalice and black rose for Costayne. She did not remember the sable banner with three feathers nor the banded oaken door within a stone archway on a purple field. Soon, she realized there were countless sigils she did not recognize. Elys named them all.

There was House Lowther with its dolphin on blue-green banners and House Vyrwel with a silver wyvern within a red double tressure on sable banners. Elys pointed to the argent banners with a golden tree, telling herself and Jaehaerys they belonged to House Rowan. It seemed to Lyarra Lord Rowan and his sons brought an army. Their banners extended beyond sight, masking any of the banners flying behind them.

“And there is the Hightower! My great-grandfather is the Lord of Oldtown,” Elys said as Lyarra looked upon the tower and flames on smoke grey banners. She was just a little girl when a royal progress saw House Targaryen visit Oldtown, but she could still remember the Hightower. _That does not do it justice._

The knights and men at arms serving Ely’s grandfather seemed kind. Even the pages and squires smiled at them as they passed. Lyarra returned their smiles in kind, but something in her heart told her something about them was wrong. She searched for reasons to be suspicious of their warm smiles and spotless armor, but there was nothing she could see to hold against them. _They are perfect summer knights, chivalrous in their shining armor and unmarked cloaks. They are from Lyanna and Rhaenys’ songs. Gods, mayhaps that is why I should hate them._

Before her gaze turned from the Hightower tents, she discovered a man that did not fit with the rest. His back was turned to her as he left one of the rear tents. She thought his soiled grey tunic and unkept hair looked out of place. He reminded her of the sailors she would see offloading a ship at port. The man was gone before Lyarra could spot a sigil or recognize a face.

“Lyarra, the joust or the archery?” Jaehaerys stole her attention, leaving her to forget the stranger.

“What?” she replied, not knowing what her brother was asking.

“When the first tilts are done, who do you want to watch?” Jaehaerys asked.

“Both,” Lyarra answered. Their sister Dany was entered in the archery competition and Lyarra would not miss it for anything. She saw every arrow Arya loosed the year before and she intended to do the same for Dany, but there was also Jaren Redfort. Her father’s squire was just one of many squires meant for the squire’s tourney.

“But…,” Jaehaerys attempted to offer his response until their brother Edric turned around in his saddle to face them both.

“Jaren’s first tilt will be late into the day. Dany will be done before he leaves to find his armor,” Edric cut in, resolving a conflict she hoped to avoid. If it came to it, she would have chosen her sister. Family was more important than anything in the world, something Lyarra’s mother taught her long ago.

“Can I go with you?” Elys asked excitedly. “Dany has helped improve my aim and…I just want to cheer her on.”

“You do not need to ask. You are our cousin,” Lyarra gave her Tyrell cousin a strange look. Elys looked as if she did not know what to say, only nodding her head in gratitude before nervously averting her gaze. _Did I say something? Does she think I dislike her?_

“The stars and sun, that is House Sloane,” Jaehaerys said as they passed a tent surrounded by blue and yellow banners.

“Lord Aladore Sloane is my father’s bannermen. His keep is further up the Mander from Highgarden. His castle is small, but he has some of the finest orchards. He is too old to ride at tourney. These tents must belong to his sons,” Elys added.

With so many sigils and Houses unfamiliar to Lyarra, she listened carefully as Elys Tyrell spoke of the Houses, some parts of their histories, the name of their lord and knights, and anything else she thought might be important to know. She learned House Bulwer of Blackcrown resented the Hightowers and House Hightower thought little of the Bulwers. Elys told them why House Footly chose silver caltrops on sable for their sigil, where Lord Ryam Roxton defeated the Mander’s Children, and how Ser Jacelyn Meadows unseated Ser Elmford Hewett at the tourney celebrating Arthur Tyrell’s nameday.

Serry, Ashford, Middlebury, Webber, and Oldflowers were the final Houses they passed before riding through the encampment of stormlords and crownlords. Lyarra began where her cousin left off, naming the knights she could, telling of their lands and keeps, and who had daughters they were likely to meet if they had not already.

When Lyarra pointed to the nightingales of House Caron, she spoke of Lord Bryce’s daughters. Ellyn could be trusted and was always friendly, but her older sister Alyce was rude and cruel to anyone below her station. Near the Carons, their column passed purple banners with white scrolls on either side of their path. Elys was unfamiliar with House Swygert, other than Lord Swygert had two sons and five grandsons, each of them knights or squires. Lyarra remembered the grandsons’ names and confessed she knew little more.

After passing another dozen lords and knights from the Stormlands, their party came upon the quartered yellow suns on rose fields and white crescents on blue fields. Lyarra knew everything there was to know about House Tarth from Ser Brienne. Most addressed the kingsguard as Lady Brienne, but Lyarra always called her Ser, because she was a knight and any other title sounded false to her ears. Jaehaerys named each of the Tarths while Lyarra told only some of their history and some of what she had known of Evenfall Hall and the island of Tarth itself. Afraid of shedding a tear like some helpless maid, she dared not mention the death of Prince Aemon, son of the Old King. _I shouldn’t think about that tale. It always makes me sad._

Only a few hundred yards remained after they bid farewell to the knights of Tarth. Almost hidden behind the billowing banners of the Crownlands, Lyarra could see the dragon banners flying atop the jousting arena. The wooden structure at the tourney grounds’ center stood taller and taller as they approached. All that was missing were the cheers of the highborn and lowborn alike, rooting for and against the knights of the Seven Kingdoms. _Soon enough…Aegon will win, I know it._

The lords and the knights of the Crownlands came last, but Lyarra remained silent for the most part. Elys had met every highborn girl from the Crownlands and had met most of the boys. There were familiar faces everywhere, Pynes and Pyles, Cresseys and Hartes, Langwards and Chytterings, Byrchs and Wendwaters, and Dargoods and Farrings. Lyarra knew them all, their stories and their loyalties, and so did Elys after their night of adventure within the Red Keep.

Bored with the previous night’s feast, Lyarra escaped the Great Hall with her little sister Allyria and Elys Tyrell. They walked the entire length of the castle walls before venturing down into the dungeons to explore the dragon skulls of old. The three of them ran in and out of Balerion and Vhagar’s skulls chasing after one another until their legs grew tired. After, Lyarra and Elys exchanged stories their fathers told of the War of the Four Kings and the Great War. Most of the tales she told her cousin focused on the deeds of other men, knights and lords and men at arms from the Crownlands, but not her father. _Why does he never tell us about his victories? If I were a conqueror, I would tell my children about every battle, every war, every dance of swords, all of it._

As the royal column pressed through the camp of Monford Velaryon’s knights from Driftmark, Lyarra studied the jousting arena. There were more Unsullied and Targaryen household guard present than any King’s Tourney she could remember. Four sentries stood at every entrance. More than a dozen guards stood outside the eastern entrance where tourney knights could ride through to the list field. Great Targaryen banners hung from every level of the arena, masking parts of the maze of stairs and mezzanines that laid beneath the stands.

Lyarra pulled on the reins of her courser, following her brothers toward the royal tent pitched only a few yards from the southern side of the arena. The white tent looked like a palace or some great keep with dozens of small, grey Unsullied tents beside and behind it. Like the arena, the royal tent did not lack protection. _This is what a camp would look like if I rode to war with Father. This camp has order and discipline._

Finally coming to a halt, Lyarra curiously watched her father approach with Ghost and his guards. Without his Valyrian steel crown, her father still looked kingly in his black leather jerkin, black breeches, and polished riding boots to match. He wore enough red to show he was of House Targaryen and not a sworn brother of the disbanded Night’s Watch.

Her father surprised her, lifting her out of her saddle, only to hold her in his arms longer than she preferred. She loved her father’s hugs, but only when they were alone. Here, she felt like a little girl, not a Valyrian princess who hoped to become a dragonrider.

“Father…,” Lyarra protested when she doubted he would ever let her go.

“I am sorry,” he whispered against her ear before settling her on the untouched grass. “You are still my little princess.”

“I am not little. I can swing a practice sword and ride a courser,” she argued, looking over her shoulder proudly at her mount. _Ponies and palfreys are for innocent maids and little girls._

“Aye, that is true,” her father confessed with a defeated look on his face, delighting her more than she expected.

“And I will have a dragon soon and fly from King’s Landing to Sunspear to Castle Black to Essos and…,” Lyarra promised. She never travelled further than a few hundred miles with her parents or siblings. Lyarra wanted to see the Seven Kingdoms and more on the back of a dragon she called her own.

“I am sure you will, but you must have patience. We do not know when your egg will hatch. When it does, your dragon must have time to grow. It will be years before you can fly one,” her father said, mussing her hair like he always did before going to one knee. _He won’t be able to do this forever. I am almost too tall now._ “And your mothers do not want you leaving us the moment your dragon can carry you away. They would miss you. I would miss you.”

“I wouldn’t be gone forever,” said Lyarra, feeling overwhelmed by a sadness. She did not want her father to miss her.

“I will hold you to that promise,” her father said with a smile before looking at the sights around them. “You always liked these tourneys, the camp itself more than the joust or melee. Did I ever tell you I felt the same? I did not care for these southern knights or their streamers or untouched armor. I did like the camp. When I was your age, I would pretend I was a knight or soldier in some army preparing to fight a great battle against Blackfyres or worse. Sometimes, I pretended I was Daeron I or the Dragonknight or the Conqueror as I rode through the camp with my father.”

“Really?” Lyarra replied with her tongue almost tied into a knot. Carefully, Lyarra took in her surroundings to ensure no one was listening. She even made sure no one was watching, fearing one of her sisters may read her lips. With some courage, she admitted, “I pretend I am riding with you to fight a war against armies from the Shadow Lands and this is our army.”

“You do not pretend to be Queen Visenya conquering Westeros? Or your mothers?” he asked.

“No, I am just me,” Lyarra replied, wondering why she never considered imagining herself as some great queen or princess from the histories.

“I suppose there will only be one Princess Lyarra Targaryen. You will do great things for our House and the Realm. I am sure of it, but I pray your deeds have nothing to do with war. I pray you and your siblings never see a war,” her father solemnly said. Lyarra fought herself to hold her tongue. She wanted to be a conqueror and a liberator and a hero like her father, but something in his voice ensured her silence. “Tell me, have you made friends with your cousin?”

Lyarra followed her father’s eyes and glimpsed over her shoulder to see Elys standing alone as a Tyrell guard led her small palfrey away. “Elys? She is my best friend. Last night, we ran along the walls and explored the catacombs. I showed her the dragon skulls and the best battle paintings. She likes riding as much as I do. And she hates dresses! Two days ago, we rode through woods beyond the Iron Gate,” she said, wanting to tell her father everything. Lyarra stopped only because she saw her family making their way to the tent. _I must remember, Father is King. He has matters to attend to, always._

“I am glad to hear it. Keep her close and treat her as if she were your own sister. It may be difficult to understand, but your cousin Elys has trouble making true friends. Not all ladies and princesses are like you two. Ask her to join you the next time you practice with your sword,” her father said.

“I will. I promise,” Lyarra vowed, now understanding why her cousin was sometimes nervous when she asked to join Lyarra or Jaehaerys in a number of adventures over the past sennight. Elys felt like a sister and Lyarra loved her sisters. _I will make her feel like a Targaryen. She is one of us._

“Come, let’s join them before your mothers come searching for us,” her father nodded toward the royal tent as they stood. Along their march toward the laughter and cheer inside the tent, her father continued, “Will you accompany me to the archery range to watch your sister?”

“Of course!” Lyarra said. _I will win the archery one day like Arya, like Dany after she wins._

“Good. One day it will fall to you to win the archery for our House,” her father said, bristling with a smile after leaving a kiss on her raven hair. Lyarra wanted to embrace her father with the strongest hug she could muster for his words, but she decided to affectionately lean into his side as they entered the tent. She did not want to look like a silly little girl with so many eyes on them.

**Princess Visenya Targaryen**

The sight of green grass surrounding the royal tent allayed Senya’s fears of ruined skirts. The tourney grounds were muddied wherever man or horse set foot in large numbers. Her grey northern dress was not something the ladies at court envied, but Senya loved it and did not wish to see it needlessly stained.

“Senya,” Eddard hurried to offer his hand before one of their household guard could aid her step from the wheelhouse. Highborn or lowborn, every soul attending the King’s Tourney was certain to wear their finest garments, but not Eddard. Senya’s brother wore a tired grey jerkin over a black tunic. His riding breeches were truly meant for riding and his boots showed their age. _They will say he does not look the Prince of Summerhall. They will probably say the same of me. The Princess of Summerhall in a northern dress?_

“Brother,” she replied, taking her Eddard’s hand to assist her step. Freed from the confines of the wheelhouse, Senya took the moment to breathe in the fresh morning air. It smelled of wet grass, camp fires, cooked bacon, and all the other smells that could overwhelm a tourney. Her peace was disturbed not by Eddard, but her loyal direwolf. Autumn nuzzled into her side, pressing her wet nose against Senya’s hand. “There you are girl. Did you think I left you? Come,” Senya nodded toward the royal tent.

“You did not need to wear this,” Eddard said, eyeing her simple dress up and down. Senya understood what he meant. _He would prefer I ride by his side. I would like the same._

“No, but Mother asked I do so. We all have our duties, Eddard. Yours requires sword and chainmail, mine, silk and lace,” replied Senya, walking arm in arm with her brother and love. While their father lifted Lyarra from her courser and their little brothers leapt from their mounts, Senya and Eddard found themselves to be the first to enter the great tent.

Unsullied sentries stood at their post outside the tent’s entrance, but no guards or servants were present within. There were sofas and chairs perfectly spaced apart, forming a dozen small solars for her family to use throughout the tourney. A great table that could seat fifty or more was placed at the far end of the tent while many smaller tables were appropriately strewn about the red Myrish carpet beneath their feet.

Alone with no one to spy on them, Senya decided to steal the moment for herself and Eddard. Standing on the tips of her toes, she pulled on Eddard’s jerkin until his lips met her own. Their kiss was fleeting, but it felt sweet and tasteful. Senya loved her brother’s plump lips and cherished the feeling of his fingers fisting her silver mane.

After Eddard’s tongue found hers, Senya attempted to flee, but Eddard fought her retreat. One hand fell from her hair to her neck while the other stayed on the small of her back, pulling her flush against his front. _We shouldn’t. I hate when they see us. We shouldn’t._ But they did. Senya reciprocated her brother’s passion, gently biting on his lower lip before battling his tongue with her own. She did not want to be parted from him, but the voices drawing closer broke them apart.

Aegon and Nymeria entered the tent, whispering and laughing with each other. Senya’s siblings reminded her of a newlywed husband and wife, leaving a sept arm in arm to their wedding feast, eagerly waiting for a bedding ceremony. Their wardrobe was well-matched with Aegon’s red doublet and black breeches and Nymeria’s red Dornish dress that left little to the imagination. Nymeria gave her a knowing look as she pulled Aegon to a sofa at the far end of the tent with Hura and White Fang quick on their heels.

“I wish you good fortune, sister,” Eddard offered as soon as Dany entered with Arya at her side, whispering something about the winds, camp fires, and banners. Senya was confident her eldest sister was jealous of Dany. _You are a prisoner to your Meereenese dress and Dany is free in her riding breeches and jerkin._ Rhaegar and Jon followed close behind with a pack of direwolves padding along at their sides.

“Thank you, Eddard. I think I will need it. I have heard rumor Lord Ruthermont’s nephew is quite good. Corwyn, was it? I do not remember. And there is Gawen Falwell. They say he has never lost a tourney,” Dany replied with a grateful smile that disappeared with worry.

“You do not need good fortune, Dany,” Jon promised with a sureness in his voice as he came behind Dany to leave a peck on her cheek. Both were clad in black without the faintest hint of red. “You are the finest archer in the Seven Kingdoms. Your arrows always find their mark.”

“The finest archer in the Seven Kingdoms?” Arya spoke up, warning Jon with a raised eyebrow. Senya laughed with her brothers and sisters. Silently, she agreed with her eldest sister. Arya was the finer archer and the champion of the last King’s Tourney, but Dany was the better swordsman. Senya did not dare to tell Arya that, knowing it would more than wound her pride. _Neither of them is the finest archer in the Seven Kingdoms. That honor belongs to our mother._

“Remember, never hold, never aim,” Lady Arya Baratheon offered in passing. Their aunt was gone before Dany could respond, taken away by Gendry Baratheon and the rest of the Baratheons. Senya thought her uncle looked the part of a great lord in his black and gold doublet with a stag sewn onto his chest. Her aunt was less convincing. _She hides it well, but she hates these southern dresses just as much as I. Why did she not wear a northern dress? Perhaps she hates them as well._

Lord Stannis Baratheon did not attempt to hide his own displeasure. The Lord of Storm’s End had the look of a hard, cruel man. When Senya was just a little princess, fear filled her bones whenever her eyes met the cold blue eyes of her father’s Master of War. Now fourteen years of age and the future Princess of Summerhall, traces of that same fear still sent a chill through her bones. _I suppose I should thank the gods he is my father’s hard, cruel man._

“I stopped holding the bow when I was ten,” Dany said, too late for her aunt to hear as Argella swept past them, chasing after the direwolf Nymeria. Senya loved direwolves, but something about her aunt’s wolf left her uneasy. The direwolf of Storm’s End was known to snap at those familiar and unfamiliar alike, proving herself more a wolf of the woods than castle.

When Senya’s eyes settled on Lady Selyse Baratheon, she was reminded of Lord Stannis’ more redeeming qualities. He was never known to take whores into his bed, though Senya heard whispers of the Lady Melisandre warming his sheets during the War of the Four Kings. Lady Selyse was not pleasant on the eyes, but Stannis did not look like a man who would dishonor his ladywife. Senya thought she looked old for her age and her Florent features did her even fewer favors, but Stannis never showed the slightest hint of displeasure or disgust with her appearance.

As Senya watched Stannis Baratheon from afar, she contemplated how she and Eddard could approach the lord. They needed to earn his trust and assure him they would not become an undermining presence at Summerhall. She promised her mothers they would earn Stannis’ trust before the tourney’s end, but the look of scorn Stannis held for Lord Varys and Ser Jorah Mormont gave her doubts. Senya feared she might earn that same scornful face, or worse, the lord would see her for a foolish princess, barely a woman grown.

_This is foolish. Arya would laugh at me if she knew. Why should a dragon be frightened by a stag? I will speak with Lord Stannis and prove myself a Princess of House Targaryen. I will win his trust. I must, for my children’s sake and their children’s sake._

“Should we go speak with him?” Eddard whispered in her ear.

“Not yet,” Senya decided. Shireen Selmy and her husband, Mathos Selmy, saved her from facing the inevitable meeting with Lord Stannis Baratheon. Senya almost missed it before she turned away, but the slightest hint of a smile graced Stannis when he spoke with his daughter. _Mayhaps he isn’t all iron after all._

“Where have you been? We thought we lost you?” Arya asked their truest friend, Sarra Naath. Senya did not realize Sarra was gone until now. Sarra answered with a cup in hand.

“A fine vintage. A gift from Lady Larra,” Sarra answered with a glance toward the Lady of Blackmont before sipping on the Dornish red. Larra Blackmont walked with Senya’s grandmothers and Lady Ashara Dayne. She was beautiful and well-suited to court, Senya thought. After the sacking of King’s Landing, it was Lady Larra and her spears who kept the King’s peace while her parents fought at Winterfell. There were other lords and ladies, Varys and Lady Anya Waynwood included, but it was Larra Blackmont who was said to be firmest ruler.

“And where are the servants?” Arya inquired, peering through the crowded tent, for there was neither food nor drink waiting for them when they entered.

“In the corner, over there,” Sarra nodded where Darrys and Whents had cornered the King and Queens. For every King’s Tourney Senya could remember, the royal tent was saved for House Targaryen and those with seats on the Small Council. This King’s Tourney was different. The royal court of sorts on the tourney grounds included not just the Small Council, but all the great lords of the Seven Kingdoms as well as the Houses deemed most loyal to House Targaryen. There were Blackwoods and Manderlys, Daynes and Whents, Redforts and Blackmonts, Selmys and Umbers, and Tarlys and Sunglasses. To make matters worse, the archons and magisters from Essos were also invited into the tent.

“There are too many strange faces here,” Arya said what they all thought, referring more to the Essosi guests than the lords and ladies of loyal Westerosi Houses. The Maegyrs of Volantis seemed kind, but Senya knew better than to trust them after one encounter. Long ago, she learned from her mothers every lord, archon, or magister was a player in the game of thrones, whether they knew it or not. The only Houses she fully trusted were Stark, Martell, Tyrell, Baratheon, and Arryn. The others did not share enough blood with House Targaryen.

“Nevertheless, we must receive each of them before they set sail across the Narrow Sea,” Rhaegar said, always the dutiful Crown Prince. Senya was present in the Throne Room for many of the Essosi arrivals, greeting them and sharing short conversations. That was all that was expected of her, but Rhaegar was the Crown Prince, their father’s heir. More was expected of Rhaegar and Senya knew her brother intended to learn everything he could of the archons and magisters.

“It will look curious if you are together when you speak with them,” Dany warned Rhaegar and Arya, oblivious to their brother’s intentions.

“Let them think what they want. The Realm will know of us soon enough,” Rhaegar replied, leaving Jon, Dany, and Sarra puzzled by his meaning. Dany looked to Senya for some explanation. Senya wanted to tell her sister, but Eddard swore her to secrecy.

After the servants brought them cups of Blackmont’s Dornish red, Senya followed Rhaegar and Arya to the sofas and pillows where they always sat. Aegon and Nymeria were already there with Laena and Corlys Velaryon seated on either side. One would be forgiven if they mistook Corlys and Laena for Targaryens with their silvery blonde hair. Brandon and Sansa were seated across from them, speaking with Valarr and Daenys over cups of wine and a platter of grapes. Aemon and Naerys kept to themselves, whispering to each other about something that made Senya’s little sister giggle.

“Brother, is it wise to drink before tourney?” Eddard warned Aegon as they settled onto the sofa across from him. That seemed to amuse Aegon as he smirked before drinking what remained in his cup.

“One cup will not hurt,” Aegon disagreed. Senya feared he would call for more wine, but he stayed true to his word, setting the empty cup aside. “And besides, my first opponent is some drunken hedge knight from the Westerlands. He will be out of his saddle after the first pass.”

“A hedge knight can ride just as well as a landed knight,” Rhaegar added with a look of concern in his amethyst eyes. Senya thought that admirable, considering Aegon would likely be one of the more worthy opponents in the tourney who could stop Rhaegar from winning Arya a crown of roses. But that was Rhaegar. She always looked up to him, as did all her brothers and sisters spare Arya, who was his equal.

“Not this one. He is clumsy with a lance and drowning himself with ale before midday,” Valarr swore, easing Senya’s concern. Valarr never made half-hearted attempts at tasks he put his mind to and she doubted he took his role as Aegon’s squire lightly.

“Mayhaps it is an act. A drunken hedge knight unseating a prince would make for a good song in the alehouses of King’s Landing,” Jon said.

“That is why I sought Lord Varys’ counsel. His little birds know the alehouses of King’s Landing just as well as the halls of the Red Keep. This Ser Humfrey Griffton is an old, fat drunk with no victories at tourney since before the wars,” Nymeria added, sipping on her wine before Aegon placed another kiss on the crook of her neck.

“It does not matter. Father taught us not to take any foe lightly and I do not mean to fall to Ser Humfrey. I would be mocked forever and I would certainly never hear the end of it from you,” Aegon said to all of them. Their brother left another searing kiss upon Nymeria’s full lips, reminding Senya how dissimilar her siblings were to herself and Eddard. On his feet, Aegon turned to Valarr who looked desperate to remain at Daenys’ side until he was reminded of his duty. “Valarr, we must be off.”

“Wait,” Nymeria hurried to catch Aegon by his wrist before he was away to find his own tent. “You almost forgot.” Nymeria revealed her favor, a scarlet ribbon Senya remembered from their childhood. Whatever its meaning, it seemed to affect Aegon more than Senya had expected.

Once Aegon and Valarr were gone, Senya listened to her brothers and sisters argue his odds of victory. Nymeria was his most fervent champion, already imagining herself with a crown of roses atop her dark brown braid. Senya held her tongue, as did Rhaegar, Arya, and Eddard. Silently, she prayed to the old gods her brothers would not face each other in the tourney, but she was in a tent on the tourney grounds, not a godswood. Without a weirwood, Senya wondered if they could hear her.

After talk of the joust and melee ran its course, Corlys Velaryon told them of a horse race planned for the streets of Flea Bottom. Her cousin had overheard some of the Red Keep’s stableboys tell of the race for the smallfolk. Senya thought it sounded exciting and Brandon agreed, promising to watch the race from the castle walls. That surprised her considering Brandon was more brave than wise and likely find his way onto the drunken streets of Flea Bottom without a guard.

Laena Velaryon cared not for her brother’s rumored horse race and turned their conversation to the whispers of Ser Randyll Buckler’s plan to crown Arya the Queen of Love and Beauty and ask for her hand in marriage. Randyll was handsome, only four years older than Senya, the heir to Bronzegate, and recently knighted. They had heard the same rumors before the tourney at Stonedance a year ago and Ser Randyll failed to reach the semis. He was better with a sword than lance. He was just one of Arya’s many attempted suitors across the Crownlands and Stormlands, doomed in their hopes of winning her heart or their father’s approval.

Rhaegar had seemingly heard enough of Laena’s jests regarding Arya’s many suitors and rose to his feet. Their cousin attempted to apologize while keeping her voice low so those who did not know of Arya and Rhaegar remained oblivious. Rhaegar politely accepted her apology, laid a kiss upon her cheek, and bid them all a farewell. Eddard followed, echoing Rhaegar’s excuse of touring the tourney grounds before the first matches. Senya looked for Arya to hand Rhaegar some token of her favor, but they maintained their mummery. _That isn’t Arya._

“Where is Ned?” asked Daenys, noticing their cousin’s absence after Eddard and Rhaegar were gone. Senya shared her sister’s confused look. Wherever Brandon or Valarr went, Ned Stark followed, yet he was not seated in their circle and Senya guessed he was not waiting to join Valarr and Aegon at their tent.

“He is in love,” Brandon laughed. _I wouldn’t laugh too much, little brother. You have the look of a lovesick fool every time you see Sansa in a new dress._

“Myranda Blackwood,” Sansa explained, rolling her eyes at their brother.

“A good match,” Naerys judged and Senya agreed. Myranda was a beauty with thick black hair flowing freely over her shoulders like some onyx waterfall. Her eyes appeared black as night as well, but they were truly grey like half her sisters and cousins from Raventree Hall. The heir to Winterfell could do worse than a lady of House Blackwood, or so Senya thought.

“I pray for our cousin’s sake he soon forgets her,” added Jon. There was a sadness in his voice. Seeing the confusion on their faces, Jon continued, “Ned will be betrothed to a northern girl. Lady Catelyn is a Tully. Lady Margaery, a Tyrell. The next Lady of Winterfell must be of the North. Not even a lady of House Blackwood will do, I am afraid.”

“A pity then,” Senya said as she caught sight of her cousin speaking with Myranda Blackwood. She wished her brother was wrong, but he was the Prince of Winterhall. He had yet to claim his northern castle, but their father and mothers had taught him everything they knew of the North.

“Grieve for him now. In three moons, Ned will have forgotten Myranda. In three years, he will have a beautiful northern bride,” Brandon said without any hint of sympathy, as if he did not care for their cousin, his friend. _You are such an arse._ Disgusted with her brother, Senya fled the solar of sorts, aimlessly treading her way through the crowded side of the tent.

Even at the risk of ruining her skirts, Senya thought to flee the tent and find her brothers. She would prefer to find Eddard, but she did not care if she stumbled upon Aegon and Valarr. As she twisted and turned her way past a dozen conversations, Senya prayed no one paid her mind. Her brother’s lack of empathy upset her more than it should and she did not want others to think her a fragile maid.

Senya almost made it to the entrance unseen and unbothered until she brushed past Missandei and Grey Worm speaking with Lords Ardrian Celtigar and Davos Seaworth. Her father was there, standing by the entrance with Ser Arthur Dayne standing behind him, Ghost at his side, and Lord Yohn Royce taking his leave with his ladywife on his arm. She did not know she needed her father until she saw him.

The King tried to say something, but Senya silenced her father, throwing her arms around him. She hugged him fiercely as she always had, but this time she tried to hug him a little harder. With her face pressed against his doublet, she wondered if he thought she was teary eyed and upset. There were unshed tears in her eyes, but she was no longer upset with Brandon and his careless words. Senya was grateful for what she had long taken for granted. “Thank you,” she almost whispered to her father.

“For what?” her father asked after reciprocating her fierce embrace.

“Giving us a choice,” answered Senya, considering herself lucky her father was King Jon Targaryen. Other kings, cruel and just alike, would not have permitted Senya and Eddard to choose each other. _How many princesses have there been, allowed to choose the one they love? Too few, I presume. Too few…_

“I don’t understand,” her father replied, carefully studying her face with his grey eyes, the same storm grey eyes Eddard possessed.

“Letting us be together, Eddard and I. I know you could have betrothed him to some daughter of a stormlord and me to some riverlord’s heir, but you didn’t. You let us choose,” Senya said, guessing another king might wed her to a Lannister or a Marbrand to heal old wounds and influence once rebellious Houses.

“I had a choice,” her father said. Senya gave him a look, telling him she knew that was not entirely true. “Well, I made a choice. We love who we love. I have always wanted what’s best for you. I want you to be happy. Eddard makes you happy. Your brother is honorable and certainly more dutiful than I at his age, but even he would refuse a betrothal to another. You deserve someone who would give up Summerhall to have you.”

“Like you did….for Mother,” Senya responded, almost forgetting her father was born the Prince of Summerhall, not Dragonstone.

“Aye,” her father admitted with his rare smile that was saved for family. “Senya…I will not lie to you, never to you or your sisters. There is another reason you and your brother can be together….the dragons. Our family was powerful without them, but it is the dragons that keep the Realm from splintering from Qarth to Braavos. Another House with dragons…”

“I understand,” Senya said, reconsidering the power she wielded as a dragonrider. With Stormfyre, she could lay cities to waste and conquer the kingdoms beyond the Dothraki Sea. Before, she may have believed her father would permit her to marry a kennel master’s son if she wished, but now she wasn’t so sure. _He is right. I must see to it my children wed each other. Or perhaps their cousins…_

The cheers and songs within the arena were almost enough to drown out the sound of the horn blasts. From atop the wooden parapets of the arena, the tourney horns signaled the beginning of the tourney. Any who wished to see the first tilts needed to rush to their seats. The members of the Small Council and the loyalist Houses were already gone, seated in their reserved boxes, as were Senya’s cousins. All that remained inside the royal tent were Targaryens, knights of the Kingsguard, a dozen Unsullied, and captains and lieutenants of the household guard.

One by one, the princes and princesses left the tent, marching across the grassy yard to the stairs on the southern side of the arena that climbed up to the royal box. The intricate maze of wooden stairs and walkways was filled with more Unsullied than before. Some of them served as gargoyles, Senya thought, perched along the parapets. They were not as frightening as the gargoyles that could be found at Dragonstone, but the Unsullied’s black armor was certainly darker and somehow more still.

As much as Senya cherished her direwolf’s company, Autumn was no longer a pup and too big to accompany her to the royal box. With a few scratches on the grey fur behind her wolf’s ears, she commanded Autumn to stay with the others and promised she would return before midday. If the direwolves became restless with boredom, Senya suspected ill-fortune for any prey prowling the woods between their camp and the Blackwater Rush.

Autumn padded away after Snowstorm and Dunk when Senya took her first step on the climb up the wooden stairs. Mindful of her steps, she pulled on her skirts to avoid the embarrassment of a fall and never-ending mockery from her siblings. Part of her envied Dany and her riding breeches and another part of her pitied Arya in her elegant and flowing Essosi skirts.

Senya meant to follow her sisters’ footsteps all the way to the royal box until she heard boots running across the walkway beneath the stands, followed by laughter. Knowing the Unsullied would not allow anyone to roam so freely near the royal box, Senya abandoned the stairs, curious to see which of her siblings had escaped the royal procession. She had her suspicions.

In pursuit of her brother and sister, Senya hurried past three sets of stairs and a dozen Unsullied before she found Elia chasing after Maelor with a wooden practice sword in hand and her dark brown hair bouncing freely behind her. Senya was relieved when her chase ended with Maelor cornered, laughing as he defended Elia’s strikes.

“Elia! Maelor! The joust is about to begin. I know the both of you like to disappear and do whatever it is you do, but I do not think our mothers will forgive your absence. Not this day,” Senya said, asking herself why she even cared or bothered to find her brother and sister.

“Father would forgive us!” Elia declared with the same smile Senya had seen her sisters use half a hundred times to escape punishment. Senya thought it endearing even if there was a hint of jealousy in her heart. Senya always did as she was told and behaved herself. She was a proper princess and never had the chance to take advantage of her father’s weakness.

“Just you,” Maelor grumbled, having the right of it.

“Who won the battle? The Seven Kingdoms or the White Walkers?” Senya asked with her sister and brother flanking her sides.

“Neither,” Maelor replied, still twirling the sword in his hand.

“It was the Battle of Castle Black. Maelor was Father and he needed my help. I saved him, just as Mother did, but it was boring. The Unsullied did not pretend to be wildlings, so Maelor became the Magnar of Thenn and I was a sister of the Night’s Watch,” Elia explained.

“The first sister of the Night’s Watch…well, I am glad it is no more. I do not want my little sister riding off to the North, never to be seen again,” Senya replied, believing her sister was capable of such an act if there was still a Night’s Watch.

“I would not be the first. There was Brave Dany Flint,” Elia reminded her. _I pray we are spared that song at feast._

“Brave Dany Flint…,” murmured Senya as they approached their grandmothers, all three of them waiting at the foot of the last steps leading into the royal box. Queen Rhaella wore a silver dress with sea green silk around her waist. Senya’s Stark grandmother adorned a simple northern dress not unlike her own, only her grandmother’s dress was the red of House Targaryen with black wolves and dragons so small around her neck they were easy to miss. Between them stood Queen Elia in one of her finer Dornish dresses in the same red as Queen Lyanna’s.

“Who won?” Queen Elia inquired.

“Elia,” Senya answered before Maelor could dispute what she had seen.

“Swords,” demanded their Grandmother Lyanna. Elia and Maelor surrendered their arms without protest. Senya could see it still displeased them by the look on their faces. “Now go join your brothers and sisters before the heralds start. We all have our duties.”

“Where are your brothers, Rhaegar and Eddard? Are they lost?” Queen Rhaella asked after Maelor and Elia left them.

“They…,” Senya searched for a lie, but her tongue only twisted itself in knots.

“Are helping Aegon with his destrier and lances while Valarr is busy with the armor,” Queen Lyanna unexpectedly came to her defense. _Why?_ Before Senya could respond, her grandmother embraced her with a loving hug. Whispering into her ear, her grandmother continued, “Your brothers aren’t as clever as they think. Their absences nor Ser Arthur’s have gone unnoticed by me. Will your brother play the role of mystery knight or does he mean to surprise the Realm on the first day?”

“I do not think he means to be a mystery knight. His armor has no sigil, but with Eddard serving as his squire…,” Senya whispered before her grandmother broke from their embrace.

“I see,” Queen Lyanna said with a conflicted look painted across her face. Senya could see her grandmother did not want to see two of her grandsons riding against each other, no matter how unlikely that was to occur. “We shall speak later.”

With her grandmothers’ leave, Senya climbed the final steps leading into the royal box. The cheering crowd grew louder and louder with every step until she joined her brothers and sisters. Two sections of the stands across the list field were filled with smallfolk. She could hear some chant her name, while others chanted for Arya or Dany, likely confusing them. Before she could take in her surroundings, Senya brushed past the Unsullied sentries at the end of the stairs and made her way around the seven wooden seats at the center of the box to join her sisters.

Senya had seen paintings of the tourney grounds and list fields before the War of the Four Kings. Those paintings did not compare to the sight before her. The viewing stands that once stood around the main list field were made small by her father’s commission. King’s Landing’s new arena wasn’t made of stone or brick like the great fighting pits in the Bay of Dragons. Some suggested building a great arena of marble or granite, but her parents refused, deciding the Crown’s coin could be better spent elsewhere. Regardless of what the arena could have been, the wooden structure was still a wonder. Thousands could watch the greatest knights of the Seven Kingdoms joust in one place.

Most of the highborn and lowborn seated in the northern stands enjoyed a roof over their heads, protecting them from sunlight and rain alike. Lords, ladies, knights, and their retainers filled the lowest benches and most of the center. Packed into the upper corners of the stands, the smallfolk were hard to miss for they were the loudest.

The southern half of the arena nearly mirrored the northern stands. Rows and rows of benches, filled with powerful lords from Dorne to the North, surrounded the royal box. Senya could see her Stark and Arryn cousins seated to her left with the Tullys of Riverrun and the Greyjoys of Pyke. Behind them sat magisters and archons from Pentos to Qarth. To her right, the Martells and Tyrells sat with the Baratheons and Lannisters, with countless bannermen filling the benches beyond. All that truly separated Senya and her family from their cousins were the four-foot wooden barriers of the royal box and the Targaryen guards posted at the corners, watching those seated nearby.

Behind the first three rows of seats, four great wooden thrones saved for the King and Queens sat at the center of the box. Three other thrones stood behind them for the Dowager Queens. The princes and princesses of House Targaryen filled out the lowest seats while the Small Council flanked the seven empty thrones. Rakharo and Kovarro sat with the Small Council, as well as their wives, Irri and Jhiqui, and their children. There were empty seats that were sure to be filled by Senya’s cousins, but her parents did not mean to show favor to any other Houses at the start of the tourney.

“They almost named you Dowager Queen,” Arya jested as Senya settled into a comfortable, cushioned chair between Arya and Dany. They were seated behind Lya and Rhae on the left side of the box. The herald followed her sister and the trumpets, announcing their grandmother’s presence and listing off her numerous titles, including Lady of Driftmark.

“I am content with Princess of Summerhall,” Senya replied before the herald bellowed her Dornish grandmother’s proper titles. _I would never wish to be Queen. That is Arya, not me._ Raucous cheers followed the titles, ending only when her grandmothers took their seats or so she guessed, keeping her eyes fixed on the list field.

“Keep it that way,” Arya responded in a stern voice. Her façade eventually faltered and they both laughed together as Queen Lyanna’s titles were recited by the herald. Silence filled the arena soon after, quiet enough to hear the destriers whinny and the sounds of the camp outside. Everyone waited for the herald to announce the arrival of the rulers of the Seven Kingdoms.

“Her Grace, Rhaenys of the House Targaryen, First of Her Name, Queen of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lady of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm, Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea, Queen of Essos, the Mother of Dragons, the Unburnt, the Breaker of Chains!” the herald yelled as loud as he could before the cheers of the smallfolk overwhelmed him. The Dornish highborn, old and young alike, were just as loud.

“Her Grace, Visenya of the House Targaryen, First of Her Name, Queen of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lady of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm, Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea, Queen of Essos, the Mother of Dragons, the Unburnt, the Breaker of Chains!” Senya listened impatiently as more of the same titles were repeated by the herald. Spurred on by the Dornish, the northmen cheered just as loud. Soon enough, all the lords of the Realm were cheering their mothers’ names. Senya was sure some of the cheer came from grateful lords and knights who survived the Battle of Winterfell because of her mothers. Most of the cheer came from lords seeking favor, she judged.

“Her Grace, Daenerys Stormborn of the House Targaryen, First of Her Name, Queen of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lady of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm, Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea, Queen of Essos, the Mother of Dragons, the Unburnt, the Breaker of Chains!” the herald bellowed her mother’s titles. Senya doubted many could hear him.

“His Grace, Jon of the House Targaryen, First of His Name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm, Khal of the Great Grass Sea, King of Essos, the Father of Dragons, the Unburnt, the Breaker of Chains!” the herald brought it all to an end with her father’s titles. When the cheer of the crowd did not end, Senya glimpsed over her shoulder to find her parents waving to the smallfolk and highborn across the yard and those filling the stands around the royal box. Her father looked kingly in his Valyrian steel crown and black doublet with just enough red woven throughout for a Targaryen king. _He hates that crown. I can see it on his face._ Her mothers looked more comfortable in their own crowns.

“Ser Harys rides well,” Arya said in a pained voice after their father waved his hand, signaling the start of the tourney and ordering the herald to introduce the first riders of the joust. Ser Harys Penrose, champion of a hundred tourneys, rode forth atop a white destrier. His rose-gold armor glimmering in the sunlight was some of the finest tourney armor Senya had ever laid her eyes on. _He looks like a champion._ White crossed quills marked Penrose’s breastplate and russet streamers fell from his greathelm.

“Mayhaps Ser Clarence will surprise us,” Nymeria said hopefully, seated on Dany’s other side. Ser Clarence Crakehall, just one of the many nephews of Lord Tybolt Crakehall, pulled his brown destrier beside Ser Harys and both knights bowed their heads before their rightful king and queens. The westerman’s armor, half enameled in black and brown, did not reflect the power nor wealth of his House. _Mayhaps…_

Senya watched both riders return to their squires at either ends of the list field. Ser Clarence appeared as restless as his mount, raising his lance high as his destrier trotted in circles. Harys Penrose was so still, Senya would have believed someone if they told her an Unsullied was hiding beneath the rose-gold armor. The knight of Parchments did not even take the lance from his squire until the trumpet sounded.

The smallfolk roared with the sound of the trumpets as Ser Harys rode down the tilt with his lance in one hand and his russet shield in the other. Senya hoped she would see him unsettled and unbalanced in his saddle, but the champion was one with his mount. Crakehall was decent enough in the joust, but his aim wavered and Ser Harys struck true, shattering his lance against Ser Clarence’s black and brown breastplate. Senya could almost feel the arena shake as everyone leapt to their feet, cheering as the knight of Crakehall hit the dirt.

“It is what we deserve, rooting for a Crakehall…,” Dany complained, disgusted with Ser Clarence and themselves. _She is right._ House Crakehall stood with Cersei Lannister until the very end, something House Targaryen would not soon forget.

“Summer knights…,” Senya heard Jon voice his contempt from the end of their row, seated between Nymeria and the barrier that separated them from Lord Robb Stark and Lady Margaery Stark. Her brother mistrusted any man or boy who boasted of his exploits on the battlefield or the list field. He also detested fighters who celebrated their victories too proudly in the training yard. Ser Harys Penrose rode up and down the field with his half-broken lance held high in the air so none of the smallfolk missed it. “I misjudged Ser Harys. He is like all the others.”

“Mayhaps not…,” said Dany, pausing as the knight of Parchments passed the southern stands. The roar of the crowd followed him until he rode through the eastern entrance, into the camp. “Don’t you see? Ser Harys is no fool. He may be a summer knight who fancies his pretty armor, but he is smart. He did not win half a hundred tourneys with just skill and luck. He gives the crowd what they want and they love him for it. I would say half his opponents are defeated before the joust begins. They hear his name chanted by dozens or hundreds or thousands and they think they are riding against a giant.”

“I should like to see that,” replied Arya with a playful smirk on her lips and her eyes focused on the knight riding forth in Ser Harys’ place.

“See what?” asked Dany.

“These southern knights riding against a giant,” Arya replied. Senya laughed with her sisters as she imagined a giant standing at the end of the list field with the trunk of a tree in hand instead of a lance. Her brother pretended to ignore Arya’s jest and brooded over something or nothing. Each of her brothers worshipped their father, but Jon tried to be like him most of all. Senya decided it was because he inherited his name and that burden weighed heavily on his shoulders.

Dozens of knights traded blow for blow with their lances after Penrose and Crakehall. Some rode for glory, others for coin, a few for honor, and Senya spied two or three who entered the lists against their own will. The first day of the tourney would not even see the first rounds of jousts completed. Many of the matches were expected to be the predictable sort with the favorites set against the inexperienced and ungifted, yet Senya found near half to be fair and competitive.

Ser Nigel Moore, as great a threat as any in the tourney, was surprised by a hedge knight in Lord Justin Massey’s employ. After Moore nearly fell from his saddle on the first pass, he did not take his foe so lightly on the second. Massey’s hedge knight suffered a lance to the helm on the second pass, but escaped unbloodied with only a headache and a mouth full of dirt. Others were less fortunate. Ser Hugh Trant, only a squire for Ser Kevan Errol three moons past, dislocated his shoulder after three fruitless passes against the more experienced Ser Gerold Cafferen. Yoren Santagar suffered a bloodied and broken nose when Ser Nestor Pommingham caved in his greathelm.

The Knight of Ant Hills, as Ser Alyn Ambrose was named for his House’s sigil, rode six times against Ser Merryck Rhysling before winning by points on the seventh. His victory seemed to please Lady Margaery. Senya did not understand why until Lord Varys mentioned Ser Alyn’s marriage to Elinor Tyrell, a cousin to Lady Margaery. Ser Alyn and Ser Merryck regarded one another with respect and appeared as chivalrous as the knights in song and book. Others were less chivalrous, consumed by pride, jealousy, and the history of their families.

Ser Arnold Oakheart, near thirty and born to a lesser branch of House Oakheart, was a knight feared by many. Senya had heard the only thing greater than his strength was his temper, which proved true after he faced Willam Qorgyle, son of Ser Gulian Qorgyle of Sandstone. Arya noticed the Dornishman’s trick before anyone else, but there was nothing she could do before the riders spurred their horses forward. Oakheart found himself on his back with his greens and yellows covered in dirt while Qorgyle rode around the field, encouraging the cheers of the smallfolk and Dornish alike.

The cheers ended when Ser Arnold called for his squire and pointed his castle forged steel at the Dornishman. Qorgyle made matters worse, laughing at the knight of Old Oak, who cursed and threatened Sandstone and all of Dorne. Arya pointed to the squire who blinded Ser Arnold with a small sliver of looking glass. Displeased by Qorgyle’s dishonor and Oakheart’s call for violence, the King ordered both men separated by the Unsullied with spears and shield in hand. Oakheart was given his victory and a warning he would lose his knighthood if he bared his steel on the list field again. It was left unspoken what would happen should Oakheart spill any blood. Senya’s father ordered Qorgyle leave King’s Landing for Dorne before evenfall.

“Lord Varys,” her father beckoned the Master of Whispers to come closer, mindful of the lords and ladies seated near the royal box. Once the Spider abandoned his seat, Senya tried her best to ignore the sounds of the arena and focus on what her father had to say to the eunuch. “Willam Qorgyle isn’t to leave the city until I speak with him.”

“He is to be arrested?” asked Varys.

“No…,” said her father. She tried to listen, but the trumpets were loud and the people louder. Aegon’s dragon, Kios, only made things more difficult. The dragon circled hundreds of feet in the air, roaring for all the tourney grounds to hear. “…Lord Quentyn and Ser Gulian’s men will do.” _What does Father need from men of Sandstone? Does he mean to punish Willam? No, that doesn’t make sense, not with Qorgyle’s own men._

“Aegon!” cried Nymeria, standing on her feet and clapping for their brother. Rhae and Lya did the same, cheering on Aegon as he rode through the eastern entrance, past the Qorgyles. Aegon’s armor was black as a midnight sky without a star in sight. The three-headed dragon was emblazoned upon his breastplate, enameled in scarlet red, matching the streamers flowing from his greathelm. The sight of his dragon soaring above only made her brother look more princely. _Did he plan this? No, that is silly. He is just lucky._

Marching alongside Aegon’s black destrier came Valarr with the lances and their cousin Victor Velaryon with Aegon’s standard. Valarr was purposeful in all of his movements, setting aside Aegon’s lances and looking over Aegon’s saddle like he was readying to enter a battle himself. Senya was no knight, but she was sure her little brother was born a warrior, like their father. _He certainly has Father’s skill with a blade._

“Poor Victor. He looks lost,” said Dany. Her sister’s sympathy was true. Victor was no stranger to court or King’s Landing or even the King’s Tourney, yet the cheers and love of the crowd overwhelmed him. Victor stood where he wasn’t supposed to until Valarr pulled on his jerkin and pointed where the Targaryen banner should fly.

“Aegon Targaryen, Prince of Fyrestone!” the herald bellowed as soon as Ser Humfrey pulled his grey and black charger alongside Aegon. Senya pitied her brother’s foe. Before the King and Queens, Aegon looked like the knight and Ser Humfrey, a lowborn farmer playing the part of a knight. Aegon’s armor was finer, his mount stronger, and his lances more splendid in their black and red paint.

“Ser Humfrey Griffton!” announced the tourney’s herald. Aegon’s hedge knight was not drunk, but his face looked tired from a night spent in one of the city’s alehouses. Before he bowed and closed his greathelm, Senya saw the defeat in the man’s eyes.

“Does he not have a sigil?” asked Rhae. Senya could not say. Griffton’s breastplate was simple, like the rest of his armor. She guessed his banners had some green and gold, given the undertunic peeking out of the gaps in his armor at the shoulder and elbow.

“There, behind his squire,” Dany pointed to the banner leaning against the wall where a boy no older than twelve held another lance for his knight. Ser Humfrey Griffton’s sigil was two golden swords crossed with a golden mace upon a green field. _Perhaps he earned his knighthood on the battlefield with a mace and two swords or mayhaps he thought such a sigil is intimidating._ Senya guessed the latter.

“Aegon! Fyrestone!” Daenys, Naerys, and Sansa cheered loudest in the seats nearest the field. Senya thought Nymeria’s cheers of encouragement would continue, but her sister lost her voice the moment Valarr handed Aegon his first lance. _She looks nervous, even frightened._ Senya could not blame her sister. The list field was not a battlefield and lances were meant to break, but the joust was not without its dangers. Some riders were crippled by fallen horses and others killed by splinters piercing their neck.

The anticipation was almost enough to break Nymeria. Senya had never seen her sister like this. Nymeria rested a nervous hand over her heart while the other fumbled with the silk of her dress. Her sister was always confident in herself, more so than Senya or any of their sisters, except Arya. Only Aegon could make her this way.

Senya’s eyes returned to Aegon at the sound of the trumpet. The roar of the arena masked the sounds of hooves beating into the dirt and the sound of Senya’s own nervous heartbeat. As Aegon lowered his lance from the sky to his target and his destrier charged along the tilt, Senya held her breath, praying to her old gods for the best. To her relief and the relief of her family, the old gods answered her prayers.

Aegon’s lance tipped the edge of Ser Humfrey’s shield, but Senya’s brother was strong and his lance found the hedge knight’s breastplate. Humfrey lost his reins and stirrups before his back met the dirt. The riderless charger raced between Valarr and Victor for the tents outside the arena. Valarr maintained a knightly composure while Victor leapt up and down, swaying the Targaryen banner back and forth.

Their brother’s name rang louder through the arena than even Ser Harys Penrose or Ser Nigel Moore. The people loved him and found their favorite. _What will they do when they see Rhaegar? Will they forget Aegon? Will they be divided?_

“Aegon! Aegon!” Nymeria cheered louder and louder until their brother heard, or at least pretended to. Aegon saved a lustful look for Nymeria, the same look Senya had seen in Eddard’s grey eyes a hundred times before. He stared longer than Senya deemed proper before he removed his helm entirely and rode off to the eastern entrance to join Valarr and Victor, waving to the crowd as he left. “See, I told you he would do well.”

“You looked more nervous than any of our mothers. Nine days and many more tilts remain. Our brother has not won this tourney yet,” Arya dismissed their sister’s feigned confidence.

“He will,” Nymeria defended herself and Aegon.

“I have faith in our brother. I pray we see him in the final tilt,” offered Arya. Senya did not miss her sister’s carefully chosen words. The only chance Aegon and Rhaegar had of meeting in the tourney would be the final tilt of the final day.

**Queen Daenerys Targaryen**

Aegon was safe and riding off to his tent and Daenerys could finally breathe again. She tried to hide it, but a mother’s worry weighed heavily on her heart. Aegon was a good son, brave and honorable, but he was also fearless and reckless. Of all her children, he was the most difficult to watch riding against knights twice his age. He took too many chances for her liking.

“You worry too much,” said Visenya, noticing her tension. Daenerys thought herself brave, but her fellow queen had fought battles on the ground with only a sword and no dragon to protect her. The dangers of a tourney seemed small to Visenya and her confidence in their children only blinded her more.

“You worry too little,” Daenerys defended herself. _Rhaenys would agree._

Rhaenys was sitting on the edge of her seat before Valarr could hand Aegon his first lance, but Daenerys found her relaxed with Jon whispering something in her ear. The nervous mother was gone, replaced by the queen who held her head high and a beautiful Valyrian steel crown atop her dark brown braid. Daenerys thought the rubies along the band perfectly matched the red Meereenese dress Rhaenys had chosen for the day. Visenya and herself wore similar dresses, baring their shoulders and enough of their breasts without being immodest, only theirs did not match the jewels in their crowns. Daenerys would have preferred violet and white silks, but she needed to wear the red of her House.

“…do not worry. Our son rode well,” Daenerys caught the last of what Jon had to say before squeezing Rhaenys’ hand in reassurance. He returned to the kingly posture he held when he sat the Iron Throne. Jon understood the highborn and lowborn were there to see the tourney as much as they were to see the King and Queens. When he caught her observant eyes, he said, “Visenya is right. You have nothing to fear with Aegon. He is better than I ever was.”

“If it was Nymeria wearing the armor and riding that horse, you would be calling for an end to this tourney,” Daenerys defended herself with her husband’s greatest weakness.

“Aye,” Jon grumbled, swallowing that bitter truth. Daenerys relished her small victory before turning her eyes to her children seated below.

Nymeria was deeply in love with her prince, promising Jon and Dany their brother would win her a crown. Arya and Senya looked cheerful, whispering some secret to one another while Lya and Rhae cheered on the next riders. Rhaenyra had her quill and parchment, depicting the tourney unfolding before their eyes. Aemon and Brandon refused to keep their hands off their sisters while Daenys waited impatiently for Valarr’s return.

It pleased Daenerys to see Maelor and Elia sitting amongst their brothers and sisters. They were too independent for her liking. Maelor appeared to enjoy watching the joust with Maekar and Robb. With Aegon’s tilt done, Daeron looked bored, waiting for the hours to pass until he could return to his swordplay. _My little warrior. You will bring my heart nothing but pain and worry._

Viserra and Ashara held their own small court of sorts with Alysanne, Vaella, and Rhaella serving as their ladies-in-waiting. True to themselves, Elia and Allyria ignored their sisters and planned some bit of mischief for the training yard, or so Daenerys guessed. Behind her daughters sat Benjen, Daemon, Edric, and Aeryn. They argued over the victors of the next match and the ones after. Daenerys listened to their bickering as long as she could until she could hear no more of it.

While the knights of Silverhill and Hellholt set out against each other, Daenerys’ eyes rested on her missing child. She searched and searched until she found Torrhen seated between Lyarra and Jaehaerys. Torrhen was the youngest and smallest of his brothers and had a talent for fitting in with all of them. Even Rhaegar did not mind Torrhen following him around the Red Keep, so long as Torrhen did not keep him away from Arya.

“Where is Rhaegar and Eddard? I thought they would be with Aegon and Valarr,” Daenerys voiced her disappointment in her two sons. Her eldest were dutiful and persistent in their efforts to impress their father and yet they were absent for the beginning of the King’s Tourney.

“Leave them be. They are probably walking the tourney grounds, exploring the feast tents and the cookfires. I did the same when I was younger than they are now. Egg would show me the tents of every knight who had won a tourney and he would name the House for every Dornish banner we found,” Jon recalled his fondest memories. Daenerys was happy to see his smile. More often than not, her husband was consumed by a dark sadness whenever he spoke of Egg.

“They should still be here. They are the Princes of Dragonstone and Summerhall,” Daenerys held firm.

“They have guards with them if that is why…,” said Jon. _I do not fear for their safety. Arghurys and Frost are with them._

“It’s not that. They have their duties and…,” Daenerys meant to stress the importance of their sons’ presence until Brienne of Tarth came to stand before them in her white cloak and silver-gold armor. “Ser Brienne?”

“My King. My Queens,” Brienne started before leaning forward to whisper something only Daenerys could hear. “A Daario Naharis is here. He seeks an audience with you.”

“Here? Now?” replied Daenerys, already frustrated with her trusted sellsword’s return.

“I will gladly send him away your Grace,” Brienne offered, failing to hide her dislike of the Captain of the Second Sons.

“That will not be necessary,” Daenerys decided.

“I will go,” said Jon, laying a hand over her own before she could stand to leave.

“That would be a mistake, my love. Daario Naharis forgets his place, but he is still of use to us,” Daenerys refused Jon’s offer. She was happy he did not argue, instead trusting her better judgement. Daario never earned Jon’s trust as he had hers. Jon and Visenya only saw the sellsword who betrayed his captains and laid their heads at their feet. Daario played the role of a ruthless killer because he was one, but Daenerys knew he was hopelessly in love with her, even if she did not feel the same for him.

“Your Grace…,” Brienne started, but silenced herself as they descended the stairs beneath the arena.

“Go on. You are a knight of the Kingsguard. When we are alone, you may speak freely,” Daenerys said, annoyed Brienne was still hesitant to offer her honest counsel after all the years she had served.

“This Daario Naharis, he has an ill look about him. You should not trust him, your Grace. He is a dangerous man,” Brienne said. _You sound like Ser Jorah or Ser Barristan._

“Good. We need a dangerous man to hold Meereen,” Daenerys said as she considered how long the peace would last. She decided long ago, another war in the Bay of Dragons would mean the end of the noble Houses. Those that were spared would be killed and their descendants with them.

“My Queen!” Daario Naharis bent the knee as Daenerys descended the final stairs. The sellsword still looked young for a captain with his well-groomed beard and black hair without a grey to be seen. On one hip, he carried an arakh and a memorable Myrish stiletto on the other.

“Rise,” Daenerys ordered as soon as she came to stand before him. When he found his feet, Daenerys silently instructed Brienne and the other guards to keep their distance while she walked with Daario along the wooden bones of the arena.

“Your knight is pretty,” Daario complimented Brienne. He almost sounded like he believed it.

“She isn’t one of your whores. Ser Brienne will cut off that head of yours before you think to find your way between her legs,” Daenerys replied, ready to get on with this annoyance.

“No, my whores are far more beautiful, but they are not as beautiful as my Queen,” Daario replied in his husky voice she had long forgotten. Daenerys guessed he thought she liked it, but it did nothing to even tempt her into betraying Jon. Daario did not have his northern accent or his perfect lips or his grey eyes or his ability to brood for hours. He did not have Jon’s raven curls or his scars or the ability to make her laugh or bring her tears of joy and love.

“Go to Lys. It is said the most beautiful women in the world can be found in the pillowhouses,” Daenerys offered her advice, but Daario did not listen.

“They are not Daenerys Stormborn,” said Daario.

“I have a husband and a King,” Daenerys responded, not caring to explain her love for Jon. Daenerys would not speak of her marriage to anyone who was not family or a close confidant. She did wonder how many thought their marriage a loveless one. Everyone knew they were exiled for their love, but she guessed many had forgotten or thought Jon married his sisters because she was not enough.

“I do not want a crown or a throne. I want you,” Daario said what he offered before she left Meereen all those years ago. He was not proud. He would be her lover if she so wished.

“Then I pity you, Daario Naharis. You will grow old, alone and without love,” Daenerys said, waiting for him to respond. When he kept his silence, she asked, “Are you angry with me?”

“I am not angry. I am full of self-pity. You are right, I will be alone and without love,” Daario said, sounding like a man accepting the terrible fate awaiting him.

“As your Queen and your…friend, I pray you find someone who will make you happy. Someone who will make you forget Daenerys Stormborn and the pain she had brought you,” Daenerys dared to say, knowing there was always the possibility Daario was just the man he wanted the world to see, a ruthless killer who only honored gold and silver.

“Impossible!” Daario denied her prayer. They reached the end of the arena and turned back before wandering into the maze of tents unprotected by the Unsullied. “I saw your sons. I could hear them chanting Prince Aegon’s name. He must be a good rider.”

“He is,” Daenerys confirmed.

“And his brother, Valarr?” Daario remembered, to her surprise. She nodded and the sellsword continued, “I have not seen him fight, but that one is a killer. He would do well in the fighting pits.”

“He is just a boy,” Daenerys said. Valarr was gifted with a sword and Ser Barristan thought highly enough of him to proclaim he may one day be worthy of donning the white cloak. The Kingsguard was Valarr’s dream. Daenerys had lost sleep on more than one occasion to nightmares of her son dying to protect herself. She was glad Daenys got her way and put an end to any notion of Valarr being named to the Kingsguard.

“I was just a boy when I killed my first man in the fighting pits,” Daario countered. _Well then it is a good thing we put an end to that bloody sport._

“I hear you killed more than a few in Daznak’s Pit,” Daenerys referred to the recent troubles in Meereen, no longer wishing to speak of her sons with Daario Naharis. “Yherizan, Quazzar, and Dhazak, was it? I never liked their fathers. It would seem their sons did not learn from their mistakes.”

“I would say they learned their lesson when we put their heads on spikes. I thought to put the little ones to the sword, but I thought that would displease my King and Queens. The council wanted all their heads mounted on spikes, the women, the children, all of them,” Daario sounded pleased with himself, but Daenerys was not so pleased. _He should have given the freedmen the blood they wanted and be done with it. How many rebellions must we suffer before we become the butchers and put them all to the sword?_

“You did the right thing. Soon, you will be rewarded for it and all your years of service to House Targaryen,” Daenerys promised without providing more than she wished for him to know.

“I live to serve my Queen,” he replied before Snow padded through the tents to join her side. Daenerys tried to hide the smile plaguing her lips when Snow bared her teeth at Daario. With a few scratches behind her ears, Snow relaxed her protectiveness. “You should keep this wolf close. It is a fiercer beast than any man I have seen.”

“She isn’t a beast. She is a direwolf of the North,” Daenerys said, admiring Snow’s beautiful white fur.

“The sailors speak of war in the Reach and the red priests of Tyrosh call for an army to protect the Lord of Light’s chosen rulers,” Daario alluded to their conflict with the Hightower and the Starry Sept.

“An army of R’hllor…that would certainly set this Realm to ruin,” she mused, knowing they needed to prevent war between the many faiths of their realm.

“Command it and I will kill your enemies. All of them, the Faith, the red priests, and anyone else who would rebel against their rightful queen,” Daario swore, not understanding the politics of the Seven Kingdoms nor the delicate required when dealing with the religions of the Realm. _Leyton Hightower and his stupid sons should be thanking the Seven I do not send you to their chambers tonight._

“I have no need of your talents in Westeros and as for the red priests, leave those matters to Kinvara and the Red Temple,” Daenerys warned Daario. She did not doubt he would find his way to all of their enemies and slit their throats if she so wished.

“Then why am I here?” he asked. Daenerys could see Aegon and Valarr approaching with their direwolves and Victor Velaryon.

“You will see,” Daenerys did not reveal their plans for Essos. She knew the sellsword could keep a secret, but she did not want to speak with him longer than she needed to. “Now, I must speak with my sons.”

“My Queen,” Daario graced her with a courteous bow before marching off with eyes full of the self-pity he promised.

“My sons!” said Daenerys, excitedly hugging both of her princes as the arena roared next to them. The cheers were loud enough to tell her another rider had fallen from his horse. She tried to kiss their cheeks, but they were both nearly men grown and too tall for her. “You rode well today and your brother here was the finest squire I have ever seen. And you, Victor, you looked magnificent holding Aegon’s standard. Your father and grandfather were proud of you. Run along now, before the next tilt. I know they wish to speak with you.”

“Yes, your Grace,” Victor Velaryon nervously replied before hurrying up the stairs.

“He almost dropped the banner half a dozen times before we set foot in the list field,” Aegon laughed.

“I have faith in your cousin. He will impress us all before this tourney is at an end, I think. I pray you know the others will not be as easy as your drunken hedge knight,” Daenerys cautioned Aegon.

“I would be a fool if I didn’t. Does Father not think I am taking this tourney seriously? I am. I swear it,” Aegon said. Daenerys could hear the mix of fear and disappointment in her son’s tone. Aegon was the most charismatic, cheerful, and daring of her sons. His qualities endeared him to many, but they also made some question Aegon’s maturity and ability to assume his princely duties. Daenerys knew better. She knew her son.

“I know it and your father knows it. If this were just some game to you, your brother would not be standing here as your squire,” Daenerys attempted to assuage her son’s fears. Rhaegar, Eddard, and Jon all closely resembled their father and carried themselves as he did at their age. She could see it every day since he was a little boy, Aegon looked up to his father and wanted to be like him, only there was too much of Rhaenys in him. “And I know you love your sister and want to see her crowned.”

“She deserves it,” Aegon said.

“She does, so make our family proud and win this tourney for her,” Daenerys commanded her son, knowing he would not fail her.

“I will,” Aegon swore.

“Good, now would my handsome sons escort me to my seat?” Daenerys asked. Valarr and Aegon granted her request and she walked arm-in-arm with her princes up the stairs to the royal box. Upon her return, she permitted her sons to join their sisters. Daenerys wanted to speak with her former handmaidens before she returned to her seat. They had only arrived in King’s Landing three days past and Daenerys had only spoken with them sparingly.

“Khaleesi, Prince Aegon rides as well as Khal Jon,” said Irri, standing from her seat beside her husband, Rakharo, with a babe in her arms.

“It is known,” Jhiqui added, who sat behind them with Kovarro and her three sons and two little girls.

“Thank you, my friends,” Daenerys replied, wondering if her handmaidens truly believed what they said. _They probably find this dull and boring. If the Dothraki jousted, they would wear no armor and the fight would be to the death of one or both riders._ “I pray your chambers are to your liking.”

“They are chambers for a Khaleesi,” Jhiqui replied, but that did not surprise Daenerys. Jhiqui said the same of the chambers she was provided in Qarth, Astapor, Yunkai, & Meereen. She did not know any better. The manses of woven grass and the wooden towers of Vaes Dothrak were kingly in Jhiqui’s eyes.

“That is kind of you to say. If there is something you wish changed, just send for one of the maids or servants,” Daenerys returned to her Dothraki, a tongue she had not practiced enough. Before Jhiqui could respond, Irri’s babe stirred in her arms, stretching his little hands from the blanket he was wrapped in. Daenerys offered Rhako a finger before continuing, “He looks strong, like his father.”

“He is my little stallion. Rakharo promises he will be as strong as his brothers. Jhono and Daggo returned from their last hunt with a hrakkar,” Irri said, beaming with pride. Daenerys understood why she was so proud. Her time riding through the Dothraki Sea was short, but she remembered how rare the white lions were and what it meant for Irri’s sons to kill one.

“Koso and Haro rode with the outriders from Vaes Dothrak to Pentos,” Jhiqui said with her own pride saved for her sons. The Dothraki boys looked strong and fierce for their age. _I wonder if they have killed a man…_ Daenerys dared not ask. They had done much to change the Dothraki in their bloody ways, but she was not naive enough to believe her khalasar was not set in some of its old ways. The Dothraki no longer raped and pillaged, but there were still the occasional struggles within the khalasar and skirmishes along the Dothraki Sea’s eastern border.

Irri and Jhiqui introduced each of their children with a tale to tell for each of them. The tourney continued while Daenerys learned everything she could of her handmaidens’ families and listened to their pleas for her return. She promised a royal progress through the Dothraki Sea, but she could not tell them when. _Rhaenys and Visenya have yet to see the Horse Gate and the godsway and the Mother of Mountains._

After Daenerys spoke of her own children, she asked Rakharo and Kovarro about the khalasar and demanded she be informed of any strife that risked dividing the Dothraki. In the days after her bloodriders’ arrival, they only spoke of trade, the issue of the Lhazareen, and the risks of war with the many kingdoms of the east. Now was her chance to learn of her bloodriders’ new manses, where Vaes Dothrak had expanded, and the twelve dragon statues raised in the ruins of the temple she had burnt.

“Forgive me,” she pleaded when she returned to her wooden throne between Jon and Visenya. “I did not intend to speak with Irri and Jhiqui for as long as I did.”

“Daario Naharis?” Visenya almost hissed when she said his name.

“He has not changed,” Daenerys replied. That displeased Visenya even more than herself. Visenya did not forget and would never forgive Daario’s intrusion in their tent in the hills surrounding Yunkai. “I sent him away to do whatever it is sellswords do when they are not killing.”

“You still believe he can be entrusted with Meereen?” Jon asked.

“I do. He has never betrayed us,” answered Daenerys. She had decided Daario’s dreams of winning her heart and taking her to bed were harmless, so long as he never touched her or disrespected her.

“Then I trust your decision,” Jon said, placing his hand over hers. Daenerys wanted to kiss her husband, but she resisted his inviting lips. They were the rulers of the Seven Kingdoms and norms dictated they hide such affection from the people.

“Ser Hubert Melcolm!” the herald introduced the arena to the next rider. Hubert Melcolm was no older than twenty-five with a head full of dark brown hair hidden beneath his silver greathelm. He rode underneath the turquoise banner of Old Anchor, with its rusty anchor and three blue plates. The knight’s silver armor shined under the sun with its bits of turquoise enamel to make him look like a tourney champion.

“Harrold said Ser Hubert rides well. He won the tourneys at Ironoaks and Runestone before he joined the Belmores in their campaign against the mountain clans,” Jon informed her as she took her measure of the young knight. _I suppose he looks like a tourney champion. His House would do well with different colors on their banners._

While Rhaenys asked Jon of Lord Alester Melcolm and Lady Alayne Melcolm, Daenerys looked for the unlucky rider paired against the champion of multiple tourneys on the first day. To her delight, she laid eyes on her first mystery knight. Riding on a great black destrier, the entrant donned armor as black as his mount with no sigil on his breastplate nor any designs on his helm to hint at or misdirect his identity. Daenerys could not decide if she should cheer for this stranger or pray for his swift defeat. _He looks just like…_

It was the mystery knight’s squire who stopped her heart and for a moment, she forgot to breathe. The squire was her second born son, Eddard. The Prince of Summerhall carefully inspected his knight’s stirrups and reins twice over before gathering the first lance. _If Eddard is this knight’s squire, that can only mean…_

“Jon!” Visenya saw what she did, but Daenerys could say nothing. Her voice was lost to her as her son pulled his destrier alongside Ser Hubert. Before her son could even remove his helm and bow his head, chants of his name spread through the arena.

“A mystery kni….Crown Prince Rhaegar Targaryen!” the tourney herald announced as Rhaegar showed his face, which sent the crowd into an even greater frenzy. _I don’t understand. He hates these tourneys. He is so much like Jon…_

Daenerys understood everything when her eyes followed her son’s gaze. Rhaegar confirmed everything she believed about him in that moment. Rhaegar was his father’s son and he intended to win this tourney for Arya. There were hundreds of more experienced knights than her son, but she could not stop herself from dreaming the sight of her firstborn son naming his twin sister his Queen of Love and Beauty. It was everything she ever wanted for her children and she was not ready to accept any other fate for them.

Much of Arya’s face was hidden from her, but she could see the slightest hint of a smile gracing her daughter’s lips. Daenerys cherished the moment and the joy she felt for her children. A part of her wanted to return to the godswood and pray before its heart tree for Rhaegar to win the King’s Tourney, but then she remembered Aegon and Nymeria. Her heart was conflicted. She wanted Nymeria and Arya to wear crowns of roses, but only one could be named the Queen of Love and Beauty.

For all the joy she saw in Rhaegar and Arya’s eyes, Daenerys discovered equal amounts of dread and anger on Aegon and Nymeria’s faces. Aegon was more angered than disappointed, while Nymeria cloaked herself in a veil of sadness before trying to calm her brother. Daenerys caught her son Jon’s eyes and silently instructed him to remind his brother the lords of the Realm were watching. Jon understood her plea and joined Nymeria’s whispers, persuading Aegon to set aside his anger.

“You must speak with them before the feast. I do not want this to divide them,” Rhaenys told their husband.

“I intend to,” Jon promised, displeased with Aegon’s reaction.

“At least we now know what Rhaegar and Eddard have been up to,” said Visenya, sounding more pleased with Rhaegar’s revelation than Jon. Their sons’ absences from the Red Keep were noted, but Daenerys trusted her sons and did not have Varys’ little spies follow them. _I thought they were off with their sisters._

Eddard had her heart beating like a war drum once again when he lifted a lance, painted in all black, for Rhaegar to grasp. Her eldest boy firmed his grip on the lance and his reins, mirroring Ser Hubert’s own preparations. His face was hidden underneath his helm, but Daenerys knew her son rode with the confidence of a man grown. Many young knights and squires proved themselves more arrogant than confident, but she knew that was not Rhaegar. _He will defeat Ser Hubert._

“I say Rhaegar finishes him in one pass,” Visenya voiced the belief Daenerys held in her heart.

Daenerys thought the arena had fallen into a peaceful silence until the black destrier’s hooves kicked and small chunks of dirt flew into the air. Rhaegar was away at the sounding of the trumpet. She did not hear it or the cheering of the crowd, only the sound of Rhaegar’s horse racing across the field and the beat of her own heart. The black streamer on his helm danced in the air, waving lazily back and forth like Drogon’s tail. _He is moving too slow. His mount is too slow. He is going to get hurt. My son is…_

Rhaegar’s lance broke her worries as it did Ser Hubert Melcolm. Old Anchor’s champion took a lance to the center of his breastplate. After the splinters of Rhaegar’s broken lance flew over the tilt, Melcolm fell backwards, fighting to stay in his saddle. His stirrups almost saved him, but one boot slipped, then the other, dropping the knight in the dirt just feet away from Eddard.

Being a tourney champion, Ser Hubert did not suffer a defeat without making Rhaegar fight for it. The Prince of Dragonstone met Melcolm’s lance with his black shield. The collision of lance and shield sounded like thunder over the Blackwater, filling Daenerys with worry for her son. Rhaegar absorbed the blow, shifting in his saddle more than any rider would prefer, but he stayed in his saddle.

“I told you,” Visenya yelled over the cheers and chants of Rhaegar’s name. _Tell me again. Tell me on the morrow and the day after. And the day after that..until Rhaegar and Aegon are all that remain._

True to himself, Rhaegar did not bask in his victory or play into the wishes of the crowd. Highborn and lowborn chanted his name, wanting what Aegon gave them. Rhaegar simply turned his destrier at the end of the tilt and rode back toward Eddard and his many lances. The prince spurred his mount into a gallop when he saw his defeated foe in the dirt, but Melcolm was quick to find his feet and returned to his saddle to ride off in defeat. Both riders traded respectful nods before riding their separate ways. Most likely missed the exchange, but Daenerys did not. _That is my son. He has found a friend and ally. He will make for a great king._

The first day of the King’s Tourney was long, but Daenerys guessed the night would be even longer for some. Hundreds of lords, ladies, knights, and retainers filled the great feast tent. The sky was still painted in a pink canvas when Daenerys entered the tent with her family. Countless men already deep into their cups of Dornish wine and horns of Northern ale filled the benches around the tables. Their children entered the tent before them and Daenerys could hear a hundred voices call Dany’s name and compliment her skill with a bow. Many cheered her sons’ names and raised their cups, wishing the princes good fortune on the list field.

After Rhaegar’s entry into the joust, Daenerys suffered the remaining matches until it was time for Dany’s turn in the archery competition. Her namesake proved her mettle and ignored the distraction of a thousand onlookers, hitting the bullseye with every arrow. The targets would move further away as the tourney progressed, but Daenerys’ confidence in her daughter was unwavering. Maron Vaith, a nephew of the Lord of Vaith, and Randyll Mooton, a grandson of Lord William, were the only archers to rival Dany’s accuracy.

Within the feast tent, four elegantly carved chairs of mahogany were saved for the King and Queens. Targaryen sigils marked the top of the chairs and the arms were carved into the shapes of resting dragons. Daenerys took her place between Visenya and Jon, while Rhaenys sat to their husband’s left. Golden plates covered with venison, boar, apple cakes, lemon cakes, jellies and gravies, goose and chicken, figs and strawberries, carrots and beans, and more were laid across the long table before them.

Daenerys sipped on a Dornish vintage from Ghost Hill as she tasted some of the peppered boar served with dragon peppers, parsnips, a bit of quail, and honeyfingers from Tyrosh. Between every bite and drink, she kept her eyes on her children and the great lords at the nearest tables. The Starks of Winterfell shared a table with the Tyrells of Highgarden and the Martells of Dorne. Another table held the Baratheons of Storm’s End, the Tullys of Riverrun, and the Arryns of the Eyrie. Houses Lannister, Greyjoy, and Velaryon shared another, much to Monterys Velaryon’s displeasure.

The dais itself was saved for the rulers of the Seven Kingdoms and the members of the Small Council. Daenerys’ mother was seated between Visenya and Lord Monford. Lord Ardrian and Lady Larissa Celtigar were seated beside the Lord of Driftmark, spending much of the feast discussing Blackwater Bay and trade across the Narrow Sea. Further down the great table sat Grey Worm and Missandei, who always preferred to stay to themselves. Varys and Ser Jorah Mormont claimed the end of the table, both unmarried and little-loved by the lords of the Seven Kingdoms.

Lyanna Stark and Elia Martell claimed the seats beside Rhaenys. Lords Davos Seaworth, Stannis Baratheon, and Yohn Royce, and their ladywives were given the seats after the dowager queens. Davos made clever japes that amused his wife, Lady Marya, and Elia Martell. The Master of War was not the Hand, showing little cheer and even less affection toward Lady Selyse. Daenerys paid the Master of Laws little mind, trusting the honorable Lord of Runestone was silently judging who before them was guilty or innocent.

“He is patient,” said Visenya, following Daenerys’ watchful eyes toward House Hightower’s table. She was careful, but Visenya had the eyes of a hawk and did not miss much on the battlefield or at court. Lord Leyton Hightower was an old and thin man with hair of white and grey, once as gold as his doublet. He reminded Daenerys of Tywin Lannister. The Lord of Hightower said little or nothing, even as his children and grandchildren gossiped and argued and retold stories around him. He kept to himself, but Daenerys could see his kin often looking to the head of their House, ready to hold their tongues in the event the old lord spoke.

“And careful,” Daenerys responded. Her own spies proved just as useful as Lord Varys’ little birds. Lord Leyton proved wise enough to mistrust the walls of the Red Keep and said nothing of his plots or strategy. Daenerys turned her eyes to his heir, Ser Baelor Hightower, a man in his fifties who still looked strong and agile enough to enter the melee or joust. Baelor was a respected knight with a capable mind for warfare and a handsome face that many of the older ladies at court admired. “If there is to be a trial, the evidence of their treason must come from a grandson or one of his knights or a trusted member of his household.”

Daenerys thought it unlikely they would find a traitor or a loose tongue within the Hightower ranks after learning everything she could of the men and women seated behind the Tyrells. Ser Garth Hightower was a few years past fifty and a hard man. The lords of the Reach called him Greysteel and his merciless reputation on the battle field was known to many after the Greyjoy Rebellion. _He will wither away and die in the black cells before he confesses their crimes._

Gunthor and Humfrey Hightower, both knights and capable in their own right, were not likely to betray their family. Humfrey had charge of Oldtown’s City Watch and Gunthor led the Hightower fleet. Neither held lands or a keep of their own. If the Realm fell into war, Leyton’s youngest sons had as much to gain as their eldest brother, Ser Baelor. Varys informed them Ser Humfrey preferred his whores young and Ser Gunthor levied his own taxes in Oldtown’s port, but neither kept a secret that could be used to turn them and they remained in Oldtown.

Lord Leyton Hightower’s grandsons were many, but Ser Torrence was the only one of importance. He was Ser Baelor’s eldest son and a proven warrior, well respected amongst the knights of the Reach. If Greysteel was Baelor’s right hand, Torrence was his father’s left. Daenerys remembered Torrence from court when they were both children. He was as comely then as he was now, but she never thought of him as anything more than just another lordling sent to King’s Landing with the hopes of wedding a princess.

Even from afar, after brief glances at the feast and the Throne Room days before, Daenerys could see Ser Torrence had his grandfather’s trust. He was a conspirator, just as guilty as his uncles and sure to lose his head if they did not kill him in battle. Daenerys turned her eyes to the quiet, beautiful girl with chestnut hair seated next to Torrence and recalled she was a Fossoway. _Another House that will need certain assurances._

Torrence’s Fossoway bride was just one of many ladies married into House Hightower. Most were born to loyalist families or minor Houses, but some were the daughters and sisters of powerful lords. Leyton Hightower’s ladywife, Rhea Florent, Baelor’s Rhonda Rowan, and Gunthor’s Jeyne Fossoway all posed a threat to uniting the Reach under the Targaryen banners against Oldtown. If it came to war, Daenerys trusted Stannis Baratheon to keep the Florents in line and promises of gold and more power to keep the Fossoway and Rowan swords.

“When do you think he will approach us with his offer?” asked Visenya.

“Soon, before the fifth day, and he will go to Jon. Leyton Hightower is old and set in his ways. Meeting with a queen is beneath him and he fought on the same battlefield as Jon. You know how lords and knights are about such things,” Daenerys answered before drinking what remained of her Dornish red.

“That still leaves Lord Ardrian time to play his role. Truly, do you think they will fall for his mummery?” Visenya asked.

“So long as he does not sound like a traitor, only a Master of Coin who is careless with his words,” said Daenerys. _The Hightowers would see through Ardrian or any Celtigar if they offered to conspire against us._

“My Queen,” said Jon, standing from his seat and offering her his hand as the singers played on the hearts of maids and ladies alike with _Fair Maids of Summer._ “Will you join me?”

Daenerys gladly accepted Jon’s hand and followed her husband around the dais to join the dancing lords and ladies. The dancefloor did not compare to the marble floors of the Red Keep’s Great Hall or small halls, but the Myrish rugs were splayed across even ground suitable for even the clumsiest of dancers. Fortunately for herself, Jon had improved with years of practice. She felt loved and protected in his arms as they moved slowly, step by step through the love song. When it was done, she lifted her brow from his doublet and surrendered him to Visenya.

Robb Stark took Jon’s place and danced with her through a more cheerful song suited for feasts and livelier dancing. As she twirled and spun across the dancefloor, Daenerys remembered Robb made for a perfect dance partner. During her foster in the North, it was Robb she was paired with more often than not, when neither herself nor Jon were brave enough to admit their feelings to one another.

After Robb Stark, Daenerys danced with Monterys Velaryon and Lord Davos Seaworth. Her cousin danced as well as any lord or knight at court and complimented her sons’ victories in the joust. The Hand of the King relieved Monterys and danced with her through _A Dance Through the Rainwood_. Davos begged forgiveness for his disfigured hand and clumsy feet. Daenerys ignored his apologies and thanked him for his years of honest counsel.

When the singers finished their song from the Stormlands, Daenerys gave Davos away to Lady Shireen Selmy and found a new partner in Lord Edric Dayne. After the bards sung a song for the free folk, Edric returned to Arianne Martell and Daenerys found herself with a half-drunken Tormund Giantsbane. Tormund surprised her, never once stumbling or stepping over her feet. He even held his tongue from speaking any unseemly japes or comments in her presence. When another northern song was done, Daenerys danced with Brynden Blackwood, Mychel Redfort, and finally, Jorah Mormont before reuniting with her husband.

“They look happy,” whispered Jon, looking to their namesakes. Dany danced gracefully around her twin before falling into his arms as the harp replaced the flutes and the song began to slow.

“They are in love,” Daenerys said the obvious, praying her children would stay in love. She never contemplated a future without her husband’s love, but that did not stop her from worrying for her children. “Sometimes, I envy them. They never needed to hide who they love.”

With another slow spin, Daenerys glimpsed Lyanna Stark dancing with Jorah Mormont and Elia Martell with Ser Myles Mooton. Lyanna smiled and tried her best to make Ser Jorah laugh while Elia spoke in hushed tones with Rhaegar’s former squire. Neither looked sad, but Daenerys still pitied them. If this were a small hall in Dragonstone or Summerhall, the dowager queens could dance together, but this was a feast tent on the tourney grounds of King’s Landing.

Many in Seven Kingdoms heard the whispers of Lyanna and Elia’s shared chambers. They could be together at court if they so wished, but Lyanna once told Daenerys the half-secrecy was necessary. Neither Lyanna nor Elia wished to provoke the worshippers of the Seven who came to accept House Targaryen’s incestuous marriages. Daenerys always wondered if she could do the same. If Melisandre failed to bring Jon back, she would have refused to wed another man. Like Lyanna and Elia, Daenerys was not interested in women, only Visenya and Rhaenys. _We would be doomed to the same fate if we lost him._

“That saddens you?” asked Jon.

“No, it’s something else…it’s foolish…I was just thinking about what may have been,” Daenerys confessed, confusing Jon further. To her relief, he accepted her vague answer and did not ask further questions. Instead, he held her close as they danced through the _Three Queens and Their King_ , a poor telling of their own story that was loved by the smallfolk of the Crownlands. A verse was saved for each queen and how they fell in love with their king.

A dozen teary-eyed girls flocked to the bard as he plucked his harp. Daenerys saw Rhae and Lya amongst them, affected by a song they knew had few truths. The last verses told of a great battle in the snow where the queens lost their king and all was lost until he was returned to them. Jon felt as tense and uncomfortable as he was the first time he asked her to dance in Winterfell’s Great Hall. He hated this song and the memories it stirred.

“We can…,” she tried to suggest they return to the dais.

“It’s just a song, Dany,” he whispered in her ear with his strong northern accent that never seemed to go away.

“Say that again,” she asked.

“What?” he replied with a furrowed brow.

“My name,” she said. Whenever he called her Dany, he sounded like he had fallen in love with her all over again.

“Dany,” he repeated, this time in a lower whisper with his lips close to her ear and his beard scratching her cheek. They stayed like that until the song was done and the dozen tearful girls were gone and another bard thought it wise to entertain the feast with a bawdy song for the drunken lords around the tables.

“You wound me,” Rhaenys jested when they returned to their seats. “You promised me the last dance.”

“A crime I pray my Queen forgives,” Jon replied. Daenerys paid Rhaenys’ sultry voice little mind, knowing where the conversation was turning. She instead looked to the couples dancing across the Myrish carpet. Eddard and Visenya had left with Dany and Jon. Her children were not the sort to dance to _A Cask of Ale_. Aegon and Nymeria remained, dancing with the sons and daughters of Sandstone, Vaith, Godsgrace, and Yronwood. The Dornish traded partners with every new verse, yet Aegon held onto Nymeria, selfishly keeping her to himself.

“Your Queen has it in her heart to forgive, so long as her King proves his love to her,” Rhaenys continued the Dornish accent she saved for their bedchambers. Daenerys meant to make her own demands until she spied Rhaegar dancing between a granddaughter of Mathis Rowan and a daughter of Boros Hammell. Her son’s partner had a mane of gold, not silver. _Who is he dancing with?_

“And how shall I prove my love?” Jon inquired.

“I cannot say here. It would not be queenly of me to say outside of our bedchambers,” Rhaenys teased through her laughter. Daenerys did not feel like laughing when she saw the golden-haired girls’ face. _Meredyth Hightower._ She searched for Arya or Daenys or any of their daughters, praying they would steal Rhaegar away. Instead, she found her eldest princess dancing with Meredyth Hightower’s older brother, Addam.

“They are making the first move,” said Visenya. Daenerys averted her eyes, knowing there were more than a dozen Hightowers at the feast and any one of them could be watching from afar, trying to read her face. This was expected, but it still unnerved Daenerys for the briefest moment. _Rhaegar and Arya love each other. I must trust them. They know as well as I these Hightowers are treasonous liars._

**Prince Valarr Targaryen**

Valarr sat alone with only his direwolf to protect him and the small campfire to keep him warm. The sky was pink and blue when Aegon left with Victor Velaryon for the feast tent. Now it was black and grey, like Drummer’s fur, hiding the stars Daenys loved so much. It was quiet all around him, giving him time to consider what he planned to do.

After his family returned from Dany’s performance in the archery, Valarr went with Aegon and Victor to prepare for the next joust. This King’s Tourney had over a thousand men in the joust and that meant they would wait another day before they returned to the list field. Victor cleaned the dirt off the armor and Aegon polished the pieces Victor handed him. Valarr looked over the lances one more time before inspecting Aegon’s saddle. He once heard his father claim a good rider would do better than a good fighter in a joust and Valarr did not mean to see his brother fail because of a fault in his saddle.

When they finished, Valarr stayed behind with his sword and a whetstone. Over and over, he slid the stone along his castle-forged steel. His sword was sharp enough to cut through good steel, but he persisted. The sounds of the camp and the dozen feast tents on the other side of the arena were inviting, but the songs grew fainter and fainter as he carefully worked the edge of his blade. He preferred the peace offered by the Red Keep’s godswood, but he could not ride off in the night, alone.

Before long, Drummer realized they were not going anywhere. The direwolf curled up beside him like the pup afraid to leave the Stone Drum and rested its snout on Valarr’s arm. He did not mind with one arm free to scrape the stone against steel. Drummer stayed like that, unmoved by the smell of cooked meat and the sound of howling wolves nearby. _What do you think I should do? I can find some armor like Rhaegar and enter as a mystery knight. No one would know, at least until Father or one of the Kingsguard attended…_

As loyal as Drummer was, the direwolf offered Valarr no counsel. He wanted someone to tell him to pick up a blunted sword and join the melee, but he did not know who to ask. Every name he considered, he decided they would tell him that which he did not wish to hear. _They will all say no. They will say I am a prince and the melee is perilous, too dangerous for a prince of House Targaryen. I shouldn’t listen. I can prove myself in the melee. Father would be proud if I won. He was proud when Arya won with her bow. He smiled when Aegon and Rhaegar won their victories. He would see my worth if…_

Valarr turned away from the fire when Drummer’s ears perked up and the direwolf rose from his slumber. Padding across the grass between two tents came Skye. His sister’s grey direwolf playfully wrestled with Drummer in the grass before both settled around the fire. He waited for Daenys, knowing Skye was a direwolf and he never knew direwolves to wander the tourney grounds alone.

“There you are!” Daenys announced herself, following Skye’s tracks. His twin sister came to him in the Dornish dress that almost matched her dark amethyst eyes. A part of him wanted to curse the clouds in the sky, for his sister’s hair was a beautiful sight to behold under the moonlight. Her silver mane flowed like a molten river of silver spilling from the moon itself, or so he thought. She left the briefest of kisses on his lips before he could set aside his sword and rise. “Why are you sitting here, alone?”

“I needed to think,” he said, afraid of what she would think if he told her everything. He returned to his work, setting the stone against his sword, until his sister’s small and soothing fingers rested over his hand. He loved it when she rested her head against his shoulder as she did.

“About?” she asked, pulling his hand away from the blade. He considered a lie, but he never lied to her before. _I cannot lie, not to her._

“The first melees begin on the morrow and…,” said Valarr, until he lost his voice when he saw his sister’s reaction. Daenys was furious with his answer. Her eyes darted back and forth with flames in her eyes. For a moment, he feared it was not the fire’s reflection in her eyes and she truly meant to burn him with some form of sorcery.

“The first melees? Are you mad?” Daenys hissed before averting her eyes, too disgusted to even look at him. Valarr could see it all on her face. Before the Kingswood hunt, he was blind and oblivious to her thoughts and feelings. Now, he could see them all.

“I did not mean to…,” Valarr said, attempting to calm her with a caring arm around her shoulder. His affection only made matters worse. Daenys flinched at his touch, as if he were touching her with poison. Her retreat hurt worse than any bruise or cut he ever suffered in the training yard.

“Go on. Enter the melee. Get yourself hurt or crippled or worse,” Daenys ordered in a wavering voice. He feared she was going to cry, but unshed tears remained unshed. She was too angry with him to cry. “What? You do not know what to say?”

“I…,” Valarr tried to find the words, but failed.

“You promised you loved me, that we would be together. We swore we would be honest with each other. I have told you everything. You know all my secrets, all my fears and doubts. And you keep this from me? Do you still wish to join the Kingsguard? Was it all a lie? All of it you said in the Kingswood?” Daenys demanded, glaring at him with scornful eyes.

“I did not lie. I love you, Daenys. I love you and want to be with you. I told you I always wanted to be a knight of the Kingsguard, but that was before you. You are my future. I want you to be my wife. Do you not believe that?” Valarr replied, hoping she could hear how much he loved her in his voice.

“I do not know what to believe,” Daenys said, this time sounding more frustrated than angered. Valarr held his tongue, giving his sister a chance to fume.

“I am not riding off to war. It is just the melee,” Valarr dared to speak again. _She is not wrong to worry, but I am good with a sword. I am better than most of them. I would be careful and smart, like Father taught us. And the weapons are blunted and I would have the best armor._

“If it is just the melee, then why must you do this? There are men who are stronger and more experienced than you, men who have seen a true battlefield. This isn’t the joust. They can outnumber you and hurt you. Even if you won, you could still suffer a wound that does not heal. You would risk that for a chest of gold dragons? You would risk us?” Daenys asked. The anger in her voice was gone, replaced by a sadness that felt like a lance piercing his heart.

“I do not care about the champion’s purse,” Valarr replied. In truth, he did not know how many gold dragons awaited the winner of the melee.

“Then why is it you want to do this? To prove you are some great warrior? I have heard Father say tourneys are for the knights of summer playing at war. I have heard you say that. So, why would you want to do this? To impress me? I know you can swing a sword. You do not need to enter the melee to prove that. I rather prefer you join the bards and sing me a song,” Daenys said, smiling despite her sadness, for she knew he could not sing. “Just tell me why.”

“Rhaegar is the Prince of Dragonstone. He will lead by Father’s side and one day, he will sit the Iron Throne. Eddard will be his Hand or lead his armies and he will rule Summerhall. Jon will have Winterhall and Aegon will hold Fyrestone. Aemon has his books and his mind. Brandon has his spear and I…I have my sword. I will not rule any castle or lead any armies, but I can fight. I wanted to make our parents proud. I wanted to do something for our House. I wanted to make you proud, but now I see I was wrong. I thought I could be more for you than the King’s seventh son,” Valarr confessed his true motivations, praying he did not sound selfish. It was not glory he sought. He wanted to do great things for his House that would make him worthy of his sister’s love and devotion. _She deserves a prince the Realm will remember._

“Valarr, you are more to me than just a prince. You are my brother. We came into this world together. We are meant for each other. You know how to make me smile and laugh and cry. You are handsome and brave and smart, but gods, you can be so stupid sometimes. Castles and armies and thrones? I do not care about any of that. Let our brothers win their glories and maybe, their names will be remembered in some archmaester’s book. You are being foolish if you think some melee will make our father proud or make you a greater prince. Father is already proud of you. No tourney or war is needed for that,” Daenys said, cupping his face with her small, warm hands. He wanted to tell her she was right and he would stay out of the melees, but she already knew his response.

Instead of waiting to listen, Daenys crawled into his lap and seized his lips. Valarr did not protest, greedily tasting her as they fell to the grass. His sister tasted like a sweet Dornish red and her smooth silvery hair felt perfect between his fingers. Their kiss never seemed to end until it did and they were both gasping for air.

“I am sorry,” he said, looking up at the ethereal eyes staring back at him.

“I am sorry as well. I know you and I should have discussed this before the tourney. You always wanted to be a knight and knights compete in tourneys. If you must, enter the lists next year. I will not protest,” said Daenys before kissing him again. This time, he let his hands fall from her hair to her hips. Her dress was so thin, it almost felt as if he were touching her naked skin. Valarr wanted to tear her Dornish dress and feel her ass in his hands, but he remembered himself and where they laid.

“Daenys, if there is ever another war…,” Valarr tried to tell her the truth, but she knew.

“I will be with you. Our dragons cannot hide in their eggs forever,” Daenys promised. There was no fear in her eyes and that surprised him. She never trained with a sword or even a bow. Flying a dragon into battle did not scare her, but it scared him. After ten years, a dragon’s scales hardened to the point of invulnerability, but a dragonrider was still exposed to scorpions and archers. _If it comes to war with the Faith, we will not be fighting on dragons. I will be on the ground, with Brandon and Ser Barristan and Ser Arthur and the Kingsguard._

“I would prefer you stay in the Red Keep, where it is safe and far away from any battles,” Valarr replied while his hands explored her body.

“I know nothing of war, but I am a Targaryen, the same as you. Mother never held a sword and she has fought a dozen battles,” Daenys argued. Valarr thought he knew his sister, but he did not know she possessed a warrior’s bravery.

“I love you,” Valarr said only what he felt, no longer wishing to argue with his sister.

“And I love you,” said Daenys, granting him another searing kiss while he kneaded a breast. His sister let out a soft moan and pulled away from his lips with a mischievous smirk. “The feast can wait.”

Valarr did not know what that meant until she rolled off him and stood on her feet. He took her offered hand and followed her inside the tent holding Aegon’s armor, saddle, lances, and standard for the tourney. Daenys led him past all of it to the undisturbed feathered bed in the corner. Her dress pooled around her feet before he could think, providing him little time to admire her breasts before she discarded his gambeson.

Naked as their first nameday, Valarr lifted his sister off the ground. Their kisses were passionate and hurried, but he did not care. The feeling of her breasts against his chest and her ass in his hands was all he needed. When he placed her on the bed, he abandoned her lips for a breast until she fisted his hair and pushed him down. He followed her orders and made his way to her cunt.

Daenys was wet and ready for him, but he was too slow to act. She pulled on his arm and invited him to lay on the bed beside her. Before he could ask questions, she was on top and her hands were stroking his cock. Her name escaped his lips when her hands were replaced by her full lips. He thought he would have said her name a hundred times over, but he wanted to please her.

Understanding his intentions, Daenys moved around the bed so that his face was buried between her legs. Her nectar was a sweet, tart taste, or so he thought as he plunged his tongue into her folds. It seemed like they were pleasuring each other for an hour until he came first, undone by Daenys’ talented tongue. She swallowed his seed like a fine arbor gold and for that, Valarr knew he was lucky. Others told him not all girls did that, so he did not quit until she screamed and cursed in High Valyrian, writhing above him.

The feast had gone on without them. Valarr slipped into the great feast tent unnoticed for the most part, escorting Daenys past tables of drunken Ironborn bickering over who could hold their ale and who would first lose a finger to their knife game. He mistrusted them, especially the Drumms and Orkwoods. The Ironborn from Orkmont and Old Wyk looked like the murderers and rapers he had heard of. Neither did he forget these Houses were supporters of Euron Greyjoy, so Valarr kept Daenys on his other side as they passed.

A host of unlucky stormlords, riverlords, Vale men, and crownlords filled the tables nearest the Ironborn. Lord Andrey Charlton eyed them warily with a hand resting on the grip of his sword. The Stokeworths and Rosbys voiced their mistrust of the Ironborn openly. Valarr guessed there were many other things the Stokeworths and Rosbys complained of and had little doubt it was his mother’s doing seating them so far away from the dais. Queen Rhaenys forgave their treasons, but she would never forget.

Northmen and free folk filled the tables at the center of the feast tent. Every northern table they passed begged them to sit and share a horn of northern ale. Princely refusals were offered to all before they made their way through tables of Dornishmen and reachmen. The songs grew louder the further they walked. When they found their brothers and sisters at a table between Starks and Baratheons, Valarr noticed it was only the young who danced to the bard’s bawdy song.

The King and Queens sat at the dais with a great table before them and their small council around them. Behind the rulers of the Seven Kingdoms and the three dowager queens stood the Kingsguard and two Targaryen guards for every white cloak. The direwolves were unseen, but Valarr was sure Ghost was there, serving as his father’s protector.

“Valarr! Daenys!” Brandon did not miss their arrival, rising from his seat with his horn of ale raised. “Brother, Sister, come. A gift, from House Stane.”

“I do not like ale,” Daenys tried to refuse their drunken brother. Brandon ignored her, pushing two horns of ale into their hands. House Stane’s ale looked dark and strong. It tasted like a true northern drink; bitter, cold, and strong. After the third sip, Valarr learned to like it and his sister did the same, or so she pretended.

“Osric Stane warned us, three pints and you will fall over drunk,” Jon informed them as he made room for them to sit at the table.

“Where is Rhaegar and Arya?” Daenys asked, noting their absence before Valarr realized they were missing.

“Stolen away, by Hightowers,” said Dany, nodding toward the dancing lords and ladies. Rhaegar smiled as Meredyth Hightower twirled around, but Valarr could see his brother wished to be anywhere else. Their eldest sister put on a believable mummery. If Valarr did not know Arya, he would believe her laughs and smiles and lustful eyes. _If Hightower tries anything, Arya will stick him with a dagger before Rhaegar can run him through._

“Better we not speak of it. We do not know who is listening or watching,” Eddard reminded them. Valarr kept his opinion of the Hightowers to himself, knowing his brother had the right of it.

“Have they made amends?” Valarr asked, looking toward Aegon and Nymeria at the end of the table.

“Father spoke with them. Rhaegar wished Aegon good fortune and Aegon did the same, but you know him,” said Eddard, alluding to their brother’s ability to hold a grudge. This was supposed to be Aegon’s tourney to win and Aegon was not the sort who liked to be surprised. Valarr prayed a night in Nymeria’s bed would make Aegon forget a grudge, if he held one, and all would be truly forgiven.

While Brandon and Eddard considered their brothers’ odds of meeting in the final tilt, Valarr sat and listened to the rest of the table. Daenys and Senya counseled Dany on her choice of dresses for the morrow before trading rumors and whispers of a mystery knight winning Cerenna Bracken’s favor. Jon kept to himself and his horn of ale, sparing only a few words and whispers for Dany. _Neither of us belong here. Our place is in the training yard, not at banquet._

Daemon and Benjen looked just as bored as Valarr felt, sitting further down the table with no more ale or wine to save them. His brothers were still twelve years of age and allowed only one cup of wine at feasts. Aeryn and Edric looked just as miserable seated next to them until Viserra and Ashara required partners for the next dance. Their sisters danced with every boy from the Crownlands to the Westerlands. Aeryn and Edric were bestowed the honor of having the last dance, though Valarr was sure his brothers did not see it that way.

Rickard and Rhaenyra mirrored Aemon and Naerys, only sparing thoughts and whispers for each other. Rhaenyra had yet to confide her feelings to Daenys, but Valarr was sure his little sister was in love with Rickard. He was not sure if Rhaenyra even knew her own feelings, but he was no longer blind, as he was with Daenys. _She laughs and smiles and stares at him like Daenys did with me. Seven hells, I was a fool._

“Those two are in love and they do not even know it,” said Daenys. His thoughts were no mystery to his twin sister.

“Who do you think will figure it out first?” Valarr asked.

“Rhaenyra, of course,” said Daenys, almost before he could finish. Valarr could not disagree and emptied his horn of ale. “It will be easier for them. Rhaenyra is smart and she is certainly bolder than I. And Rickard…Rickard has not been hit in the head as many times as you,” Daenys jested.

“Aye,” Valarr laughed, though he was not so sure that was true. Rickard was the least skilled fighter in House Targaryen, but that did not dissuade him from waking early every morning to march off to the training yard. Valarr dealt Rickard countless defeats with many half-hearted blows to his brother’s helm.

“Daenys…,” Valarr continued, squeezing his sister’s hand underneath the table. He saw her doubts and regrets and how they saddened her. “You are the smartest and boldest person I know. You showed me there was something greater than the Kingsguard. Being with you is the best thing I have ever done in my life. I did not see you for who you are. I did not see that we could be together, that we should be together. Only you saw that and only you were bold enough to tell me the truth. In the Kingswood, that was bravery. Even if I wasn’t so blind, I do not think I’d have found the courage to tell you what I felt. Rhaenyra is smart and bold, but you…”

“Thank you,” said Daenys, then silencing him with a kiss. It was short, but her affection was sweet and meant more to him than most kisses. As soon as her taste was gone, he wanted to bury his hand in her flowing silver hair and pull her back for another kiss. Instead, he chose to admire her beauty and save his affections for their return to the Red Keep. “You did not need to say that.”

“I did,” Valarr disagreed. “You deserve to know the truth and you deserve to hear finer words than I have to offer.”

“I love you because you are you. If I wanted a poet, my heart would belong to another,” Daenys said, this time resting a comforting hand over his own. Valarr raised her offered hand and laid a gentle kiss upon her skin as he lost himself in her violet eyes. Rhaegar once told him he should look at Daenys like it was the first time he ever laid eyes on her and he intended to do just that until the end of his days.

They enjoyed what remained of the feast until his parents finally rose from their seats at the dais and took their leave. Following their parents, Valarr walked arm-in-arm with Daenys to royal tent where the wheelhouses and horses were waiting. His sister eased their farewell with the promise of joining him in his bedchambers upon their return to Maegor’s Holdfast. It was against what they had agreed to before the tourney, but Valarr decided he did not want to be parted from her this night or any other night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this update took so long. Not entirely happy w/ Senya & Valarr's POVs. I do not think I really added to their storyline/character enough. Next chapter will have the meeting between Jon & Leyton Hightower, a Rhaenys POV where she meets w/ the Essosi magisters, & a Princess Sansa POV. Please let me know if there is POV you want or more information on specific character.
> 
> Again, please leave any comments, questions, criticisms, errors etc. below.


	12. Lords & Archons

**King Jon Targaryen**

It was three hours past first light of the second day when the first melee of the King’s Tourney commenced. The melee ground was green and undisturbed, perfect fighting ground for the competing lordlings, knights, sellswords, squires, freeriders, and lowborn men-at-arms. Contrasting itself to the tilts, everything seemingly went to plan. The first of seven great melees began without a prince or princess joining the fray, an assurance he received from each of his children before they rode out from the Red Keep.

While the sons of Tudbury and Wagstaff contended with a band of three Tyroshi sellswords, Jon sat with his wives on the royal box, modest in comparison to jousting arena. Constructed of wood, the melee ground’s royal box was a raised wooden platform that stood between the viewing stands. There was only room for himself, his three queens, and the knights of the Kingsguard posted behind them. Their direwolves and fourteen men of their household guard occupied the foreground, dissuading any assassins or unknown faithful servants of Starry Sept from approaching.

“This is a surprise,” noted Rhaenys as the Tyroshi tripped Wagstaff and set to bludgeon the fallen knight’s armor. Like many Essosi fighters before them, their leather armor was light and sparing, making them quick and agile, but also vulnerable. The third Tyroshi failed in his task of holding off Tudbury before Jon could warn his sisterwife of what was to come.

“They forget this isn’t a fighting pit,” said Visenya. Caught unawares, Tudbury bloodied the nose of one Tyroshi and sent the other tumbling away from the fallen son of Lord Wagstaff. Both Essosi fell to Tudbury before Tudbury saw his own defeat at the hands of Ser Qoren Allyrion, a young knight who was said to be feared by many in Dorne. Varys had informed Jon many men tremble when they see Qoren’s red and black enameled armor in the melee.

After Tudbury’s fall, another dozen fell until only three remained standing and three were declared champions of the melee. With so many men entered in the melee, the Master of Games sought a solution and Jon decided seven melees with three champions each would decide the list of contestants for the tourney’s final melee. It was a practical decision that would not require a larger melee field and it appeased the more malleable worshippers of the Seven.

“Your…Graces,” young Cregard Mormont came forth with a scroll of parchment in-hand, sounding unsure of his own words until Jaren Redfort gave his arm a nudge. At ten years of age, Cregard was the eldest of Lady Dacey Mormont and Elric Harclay. Like his mother and father, the boy was tall and thin, but sure to be strong and a great warrior. He was to be the future Lord of Bear Island, but first he would serve as Jon’s page, an honor bestowed upon the northerner that very morning. Jon did not have need of a page, but Visenya insisted they reward House Mormont’s loyalty and soften his squire’s burdens.

When Jon waved his newly appointed page to come closer, Cregard hurried up the steps and placed the parchment in his hand. Forgetful, the page had to climb the steps again at Jaren’s urging to say, “From Lord Varys.”

“That is all, Cregard. Go, watch the next melee with Prince Robb and Prince Maekar,” Jon commanded, noticing the boy was unsure of what he was supposed to do. With a quick and unpracticed bow, the Mormont boy was gone, marching away to join the princes and princesses filling the viewing stands.

“What does it say?” Visenya inquired after he unfurled the scroll. _The red flame dances around a flock of ten pigeons, old and black. A storm between honeyfingers passed over fifteen septs._

“Nothing good,” Jon answered, before handing Visenya the parchment to read for herself. Varys’ news was not unexpected, yet it gave them little comfort knowing what was to come.

“So many?” asked Visenya with a furrowed brow. Jon nodded his head in confirmation before Visenya passed the parchment to Daenerys.

“Twenty-five,” Jon answered Rhaenys’ questioning eyes. She did not need to read Varys’ cryptic words to understand what they were speaking of.

“Shall we have him arrested when he arrives?” Rhaenys asked. Lord Davos Seaworth awoke to find Baelor Hightower waiting outside his office in the Tower of the Hand just after sunrise, requesting an audience with the King for his father, Lord Leyton Hightower.

“I will hear what he has to say,” he said, deciding the Hightowers could face the King’s justice another day. Jon wanted witnesses and evidence of their treason. It was in his power to refuse a fair trial, but that was not the sort of ruler he meant to be. He needed to learn whether all of House Hightower was complicit or just a few. He needed to discover the truth of the coastal attacks and the troubles in the eastern ports.

“Will you confront him with this news?” Rhaenys asked.

“Leyton Hightower will suspect we are already moving against him if you do not,” Visenya said before he could answer.

“And that is why I will demand his swords, should the Faith Militant begin pillaging the Reach. He will know we have spies amidst their ranks and it will not be long before more ravens arrive from the South. He intends to use this as leverage against our position,” Jon told his queens what he suspected they already knew. _Florent, Beesbury, and Bulwer will demand a peace or our armies._

“What if he suspects there is no compromise? He and his sons could flee the city,” Daenerys added a doubtful possibility.

“Then we will give chase and have them arrested for traitors,” Jon swore, knowing such action from the Hightowers would be an admission of guilt. An escape by ship was an impossibility, with the Targaryen and Velaryon fleets controlling Blackwater Bay and the Narrow Sea. By chance they escaped their patrols, Jon knew Leyton would not chance sailing through the Stepstones and around Dorne, past the Arbor. The road from King’s Landing to Oldtown was long and fraught with peril for an enemy of the Iron Throne but it was the only way.

“Mayhaps we should arrest them now and be done with it,” Rhaenys mused. It was tempting to have the Hightowers arrested and tried for their treasons, but Jon wished to avoid killing lords without evidence of their crimes. That was something his grandfather, King Aerys II, was fond of and earned him his moniker, the Mad King.

“We must choose the path that is hard and right. We promised ourselves we would rule a lawful realm. I do not intend to break that promise on account of Leyton Hightower,” said Jon, knowing a day may come when a greater foe than the Hightower and Starry Sept threatened House Targaryen and he would be forced to ignore the laws of the Realm.

“My King,” Visenya rose from her seat, no longer speaking in a hushed tone. Daenerys and Rhaenys rose with her, tormenting him with their Essosi dresses. “I am afraid this is where we part.”

Jon stood and bid his farewells before they were away, climbing down the wooden steps. Ser Garlan Tyrell and Ser Brienne of Tarth escorted the Queens from the royal box, past the viewing stands to the waiting wheelhouses. They were to return to the royal tent where more than a dozen ladies from loyalist Houses sought an audience, before breaking their fast at midday.

Once the wheelhouses were away and out of sight, Jon turned his gaze toward the melee field. A dozen young squires, with assistance from the healers, helped the bruised and wounded knights to their feet. After the field was cleared of the wounded fighters, several orphan boys paid by the Master of Games went about collecting the abandoned weapons littering the mock battlefield. All the signs of a melee were gone when the orphans were done and the trumpets sounded for the next round of fighters to come forth.

During the intermission between melees, most of his children abandoned their seats to stand along the wooden fence that separated the fighters from spectators. Jon kept a watchful eye on his sons, particularly Rhaegar and Aegon. Aegon huddled around Rhaegar like the rest, pointing to the approaching fighters and wagering who would come away a victor. When Aegon laughed at some jest made by Rhaegar, Jon decided his sons told the truth and there was no animosity between the two princes.

“Your Grace,” Ser Arthur alerted Jon to the two knights marching forth, both former squires to his father. Ser Myles Mooton was still a man of great strength, bold and capable enough to defeat knights half his age. The knight of Maidenpool had thinning grey hair cropped short with a clean-shaven face. King Rhaegar’s first squire wore a white and red doublet with a modest red salmon emblazoned upon his chest. He stood nearly half a foot taller than the man beside him, Ser Richard Lonmouth.

Ser Richard did not look the part of a strong, battle-hardened knight. He was shorter than the King and thin enough to make one question if he could lift a battleaxe or sword. Jon knew better, having seen his father’s former squire in the training yard. Lonmouth was agile enough to dance around his stronger foes and quick enough to deliver crippling blows with his bastard sword.

“Your Grace,” Mooton and Lonmouth echoed Ser Arthur when Jon met the knights along the melee field’s fence. Ser Richard wore a black gambeson and a yellow and red tunic underneath, displaying the colors of his House without the skulls and kisses of their sigil.

“Rise, Sers,” Jon ordered the pair of knights almost before their knees touched the ground.

“Prince Rhaegar and Prince Aegon rode well in the joust. I have fifty gold dragons on both reaching the final tilt. If they ride half as well as your Grace, I say bugger the rest. This tourney is decided,” said Myles Mooton, proudly and loud enough for anyone to hear. Jon felt grateful for the knight’s belief in Rhaegar and Aegon, but he also knew Mooton would wager his gold on Torrhen if entered the lists. The knight was the staunchest of loyalists and would gleefully lose his coin to prove his loyalty to House Targaryen.

“And Princess Daenerys, as great an archer the Seven Kingdoms has seen in many years,” added Richard Lonmouth. Jon remembered the knight said the same of Arya a year ago. From another, the words would ring hollow, but Ser Richard was an honorable knight. Jon had never known his father’s faithful squire to be a man of false words.

“I thank you. She has all my faith,” Jon said of his daughter before sparing a look toward his children. Dany was leaning against the fence between Arya and Nymeria, waiting for the next melee to commence. “As for my sons, I fear they have yet to truly prove themselves. They are better fighters than riders and half a hundred tourney champions remain.”

Since they were old enough to pick up a practice sword, Jon’s sons learned how to fight from the Kingsguard, knights of their household guard, Visenya, and himself. He never bothered to teach them how to joust. Aegon learned from Barristan Selmy and Rhaegar from Arthur Dayne. Jon trusted his knights, but he paid Aegon’s jousting little mind and knew nothing of Rhaegar’s. _I trained them to fight a war, not a tourney. Mayhaps I was wrong. Mayhaps I should have trained them for both._

“Champions of lesser tourneys and knights of lesser Houses,” Ser Myles said.

“Hedge knights fall just as easily as princes on the battlefield. It is the same on the list field, is it not?” replied Jon, knowing his sons could be unseated by some lowly knight unknown to most of the Realm.

“How fares Queen Lyanna and Queen Elia?” Ser Richard inquired.

“You have not spoken with them?” Jon asked, surprised neither knight had met with his mothers. Richard shook his head and Jon continued, “They are well. My youngest children require most of their attention.” _Or is it the other way around?_

“They taught each of them how to ride, as I am sure they have told you,” Jon continued, earning nods from both knights. After telling his father’s squires stories of his children, Jon listened to Ser Myles and Ser Richard tell of their own families. Myles spoke of his two sons, one wed to a Darry and the other to a Vance. The eldest had a young boy and his younger son was expecting a child in a few moons. Richard Lonmouth only had one daughter and she was wed to a grandson of Lord Duram Bar Emmon. She had a son and daughter Richard planned to see after the King’s Tourney when he would depart for Sharp Point.

“Will his Grace have need of our swords?” asked Myles after speaking of Maidenpool and his efforts to build new quays to accommodate larger cogs from Lys and Volantis.

“I intend to resolve this conflict before it spreads into the other six kingdoms. I will not see the Riverlands bleed, not again,” Jon swore. The War of the Four Kings destroyed farms, holdfasts, towns, and hovels. Thousands died and more suffered. The Iron Throne kept the smallfolk fed through winter and helped them rebuild after. Jon promised himself he would not allow them to see another war while he sat the throne. “Have the Faith sent septons or holy brothers to Maidenpool?”

“Only Septon Maynard’s septons and holy brothers, but they are not the treasonous sort. They know better than to speak against our rightful King and Queens in Maidenpool,” Myles confirmed what he had heard from the riverlords and House Targaryen’s spies in the Riverlands. “If I may be so bold, your Grace, Maynard would make for a good and loyal High Septon. The smallfolk listen to him and the lords do not take issue with him. From what I have seen, he is not the sort to be corrupted either.”

“I will consider what you have said,” Jon replied. He trusted Mooton and Lonmouth, but he was not going to reveal Maynard as their ally until the Starry Sept was emptied of Hightower allies and Maynard wore a crystal crown upon his head. “Ser Richard, do you have counsel to offer?”

“I am just a knight, your Grace, and you are your father’s son, a king. I would not presume…,” Richard responded carefully and quietly. The Knight of Skulls and Kisses looked the part of a gentle and kind man, but the holy brothers who attempted to recruit House Lonmouth’s smallfolk to their ranks met a merciless knight. Ser Richard beheaded three of the holy brothers and the Poor Fellows who protected them. The fourth was spared and sent back to Oldtown to warn others from returning to Lonmouth lands.

“Sometimes, it is a knight’s counsel a king needs,” Jon said.

“When Balon Greyjoy rebelled against your father, Rhaegar called on his bannermen and returned the Iron Islands to the fold. The Faith are not the Ironborn, I know, but still…your father would do what he thought was right, for the good of the Realm and his House. Perhaps that means the Seven Kingdoms must fight another war, or not. If there is a chance for peace, I know you will see it. Only you, our King, can know what the right choice is,” counseled Richard Lonmouth.

This was not the first time Jon asked himself what his father would do if he were still King. His father meant to wed him to Myrcella Baratheon. Visenya and Daenerys would have been betrothed to others, forming alliances with the right Houses to secure a lasting peace during his father’s reign. _My father did not have dragons. Would he betroth his namesake to the Hightower girl or Arya to Addam Hightower? Or would he arrest the Hightowers now and march an army against Oldtown and put the Faith Militant to the sword?_ A part of Jon believed his father would make a betrothal so long as Leyton Hightower betrayed the Starry Sept and put the Poor Fellows to the sword. Another part of him thought his father would remember the Dance of Dragons and bring justice to those who plotted against the Iron Throne.

“If there is a war, House Mooton will fight for House Targaryen, I promise you,” Ser Myles added in a steely voice that would frighten any Poor Fellow if they were there to listen. The fearsome knight from his childhood was still as fierce and bold as he remembered.

“Your smallfolk?” Jon asked, wondering if the lowborn from Maidenpool would fight against an enemy proclaiming to fight on behalf of the Seven with the Warrior protecting them.

“They worship the Seven, yes, but they know it was the dragons that saved them from White Walkers and that damned winter,” Myles said. His brother, Lord William Mooton, voiced a similar sentiment upon his arrival in King’s Landing.

“Some of our smallfolk think you are the Warrior himself. Others think you are one of the old gods and a few think you are the only god,” Richard jested. Jon closed his eyes and shook his head at such a notion. _If I were one of the gods, Father and Egg would still be here._

“My King,” Ser Arthur Dayne cut in after the second sounding of the trumpets. The second melee was to begin soon and Jon followed his Kingsguard’s gaze to see Lord Leyton Hightower approaching. Ser Baelor Hightower came with him, as well as two Hightower guards. Myles Mooton and Richard Lonmouth courteously took their leave after Jon promised to speak with them at the night’s feast.

Leyton Hightower was seventy-five years of age, yet he walked with the grace and strength of a man in his fifties. The Lord of Oldtown stood as tall as Jon remembered his uncle, Ser Gerold Hightower. They even looked alike with their white hair and wrinkled faces, but that was where the similarities ended. Jon remembered the White Bull to be a knight as strong as any in the Seven Kingdoms, whereas Lord Leyton appeared as lithe as a young squire. Ser Baelor held a closer resemblance to the former Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, with his broad shoulders and strong jawline.

“Your Grace,” said both Hightowers on bended knee. Lord Leyton wore a simple grey doublet and grey breeches that were near as black as his boots. Ser Baelor chose a brown leather jerkin, fit for travelling or hunting, over black riding breeches and muddied boots. The Hightowers were wealthier than Houses Stark, Tully, and Baratheon, and they came before their King as modest men with no signs of great wealth, save the swords sheathed at their belts and the guards at their back. Jon wondered if their appearance was strategic or simply the wardrobe they preferred at tourney.

“Rise, my Lord,” said Jon, minding not to leave them on bended knee longer than any other lord. “I pray your chambers are to your liking.”

“They are most splendid, my King. My ladywife thanks you and the Queens. She was grateful to discover our chambers faced the sea. The Roseroad was difficult for her. She finds little sleep without the sound of the sea outside her windows,” explained Leyton before Baelor said more of the same, though Jon knew that to be a lie. One of Varys’ spies overheard Lady Rhonda’s complaints of the Lannisters and Tullys being given chambers on the floor above them within Maegor’s Holdfast.

“I am glad to hear of it,” Jon replied with a smile before offering both Hightowers to join him along the melee fence. “What I am not glad to hear of are these troubles in the south.”

“I warned the High Septon of these fanatics, but he would not listen. Instead, he takes his counsel from the likes of Septons Korren and Faramond. Dare I say, Septa Elnore and Septa Solentine are worse than the lot of them. My cousin still offers them his sound advice, but I fear for his well-being with every passing day. The Most Devout have lost their way, I am afraid…puppets, controlled by these Poor Fellows or whatever name they go by. They call themselves so many names, I forget them all,” Leyton Hightower complained. If Jon were a more gullible king, he might have believed the lord’s despairing voice. _Mathos Hightower, the one septon among the Most Devout to counsel peace and fealty to the Iron Throne? I doubt it._

“They speak of war and rebellion. Their septons preach against my rule and tell the faithful House Targaryen has sworn away the gods and declared we are an enemy to any man or woman who worships the Seven. The holy brothers and the militant call for the murder of my children and my queens. You have allowed this poison to fester and spread within your city for too long. I will not allow it to infect the rest of the Seven Kingdoms,” Jon warned both Hightowers.

“I try to ignore such filth, but yes, you are right. I misjudged the Devout and the Militant. I did not think the people would listen. This must be righted,” Leyton vowed.

“So, we are in agreement? Things cannot continue as they are,” Jon asked.

“We are in agreement. The Faith Militant are no different than the sparrows who almost brought this city to its ruin. They were just as responsible as Cersei Lannister for murdering my grandson and his father,” Leyton added in a somber tone with a hint of anger laced in his voiced. “They must be stopped before their strength spreads to the other kingdoms. The Stormlands and Westerlands will be next, I swear it.”

“Lord Leyton, why then have you not put down this insurrection? You can raise an army of ten thousand men and scatter the Faith Militant within a fortnight,” Jon asked, knowing Lord Leyton would see through any avoidance of conflict.

“Your Grace has not commanded it,” Leyton defended himself.

“And what if your King commands you do so now?” Jon replied, staring the Lord of the Hightower in the eyes to ensure his displeasure was known.

“I would respectfully refuse his Grace, unless certain assurances were made,” the old lord answered.

“Certain assurances…,” Jon said, waiting for Hightower’s proposition. Leyton and Baelor both grinned, knowing what was to come. _They know I see through all of this._

“Forgive me, my King, but I find myself and my House in a perilous situation. House Hightower has always been a friend to House Targaryen. I supported your father’s claim during the rebellion and answered his call again when Balon Greyjoy rebelled. My sons and their sons fought for you against the Lannisters and again, fought for you in the North. We are loyal to our rightful King, but what you ask puts my family in great danger. Oldtown is not King’s Landing and the Hightower is not the Red Keep. There are spies within my household, spies for the High Septon and the Most Devout and likely these Poor Fellows. If I were to move against them, as you command, I would be risking the lives of my sons and their wives, my grandchildren and great-grandchildren. And then there are my nephews and nieces and cousins. I have good, loyal men who serve me, but they are not Unsullied nor your household guard. They were raised in Oldtown and many are godly men who listen to the Starry Sept. A command from the Seven overrules my authority, I am afraid. I can raise an army of ten thousand, but how many would raise their swords against the Most Devout and these holy people who follow them? Half? Less? I am not sure,” Lord Leyton laid out his defense. _That would sound reasonable if you did not command the Most Devout and the leaders of the Faith Militant._

“My family has peacefully ruled Oldtown for thousands of years and we have done so because we have respected the Faith. We have never taken sides against the Starry Sept and the Most Devout. If I were to risk my House’s future for the good of the Realm, your Grace, I would need to know your House and your armies would be there to defend us, should the smallfolk rise against us,” Leyton declared his first condition.

“Of course, you would have the support and protection of the Iron Throne…,” Jon promised.

“If we were to come to terms, I know we could resolve this dispute with the Faith without spilling the blood of thousands of innocents. Gold, silver, threats, and promises can persuade half the Militant to put down their arms and return to their homes. The others, well, Baelor has enough loyal men to put them down. Without the Poor Fellows to protect them, the holy brothers and septons will scurry back to the Starry Sept. I will let the rats through my gates and their fear will spread through the Starry Sept like a poison. If my cousin was assured of the Iron Throne’s support and certain debts were forgiven, I believe he could see to it the Most Devout are stripped of their powers by the loyal and disloyal septons alike. If Mathos were to be named High Septon, House Targaryen would have a loyal friend to lead the faithful and keep them from straying from a holy path,” Leyton Hightower said.

“It has never been my intention to meddle in the affairs of the Starry Sept, until now. If your cousin can put an end to threats against my children and the ways of my family, I see no reason to object to a new High Septon. The Faith’s debts are sizeable, but peace is more important than gold. What else?” Jon asked.

“You are an honorable king, your Grace, and I should like to think I am an honorable lord. My sons are true to their oaths and I have no reason to doubt Prince Rhaegar is true to his word, but this agreement must last in perpetuity. In order for my House to keep the Faith in check, the smallfolk must see our strength extends beyond the walls of Oldtown. A marriage, or should I say, marriages between our two great Houses would secure our alliance against those who would wish to use the Faith of the Seven to divide the Seven Kingdoms,” said Leyton, confirming suspicions Jon had held for six moons.

“Many of my sons and daughters are already promised to one another,” countered Jon. _I will have you demand the terms._

“Prince Rhaegar is not promised to another, or so I am told. My great-granddaughter, Meredyth, would make for a beautiful Princess of Dragonstone and one day, a queen. She is still a maiden and would serve your House well. She is young, but she could offer wise counsel when it comes to matters of the Seven. Every day, she prays with her septa and reads the sacred books. And if I may be so bold, my grandson, Addam, would be a good match for Princess Arya. He will need to rule one day and I have heard whispers Princess Arya is more than capable of ruling herself. I think her influence would make my grandson a better lord and she would certainly honor the Hightower with her presence. She is close to her brother, yes? Good, then their marriages would ensure the peace between the Faith and the Iron Throne,” Leyton continued, carefully hinting at the influence Arya would wield in Oldtown and House Hightower. She could serve as a spy, but so would Meredyth Hightower. _He is wise not to mention the dragons nor the fact Arya would be his hostage for the rest of my reign._

A part of Jon was disappointed to learn Leyton Hightower said nothing to surprise him. The old lord expected him to give away Arya and accept Meredyth Hightower as his son’s wife. House Hightower would become the second most powerful family in the Realm. Their control of the Faith would be stronger than ever, they would gain dragonriders through Arya’s children, and their blood would flow through the veins of future kings. _This peace would never last. Another House with dragons could bring our House to ruin._

“I will consider what you have proposed,” Jon lied to both Hightowers before turning his gaze to the melee field. Dozens of men, knights and men-at-arms, all clad in heavy armor stood waiting for the trumpet to sound. Jon waved his hand and the herald shouted and trumpeters blew their instruments and the melee began.

“Your Grace, if I may…there is more I have to offer. I know some still doubt it, but I believe these attacks along the Sunset Sea to be the work of the Ironborn. My son, Gunthor, has already sent his best captains north in search of these longships. Should these murderers prove to be Lady Greyjoy’s men, I ask you give me leave to bring them to justice…after the Faith Militant are dealt with, of course,” Leyton Hightower said when Jon took his eyes off the ensuing melee.

“You know more of the Ironborn than you are letting on,” Jon played the fool.

“I have my suspicions, but…I dare not say it, without proof,” said Leyton Hightower. The lord’s face was a mystery, but his eyes were greedy and revealed his lies.

“My brother’s dromonds are strong enough to sail against the Iron Fleet, my King,” Ser Baelor added with a firm nod of his head.

“Let us join our Houses and set this Realm to rights. It would be our House’s greatest honor,” Leyton Hightower finished. Jon waited for another speech, but no more words were said by the Lord of Oldtown.

“I must speak with my Queens before I make my decision,” said Jon. He turned from Lord Leyton to watch two knights wielding bastard swords against a single foe swinging a blunted battleaxe. Jon cared little for the melee and looked further down the fence to see his children enjoying the battle. Daeron appeared unimpressed by the swordsmanship while Daemon and Benjen cheered on the knights serving Houses Celtigar and Rykker.

“Your Grace,” both Hightowers bowed their heads and turned on their heels when they realized they were dismissed.

“Lord Leyton,” Jon stopped both men before they were away. Baelor’s eyes filled with hope while Leyton’s eyes remained calm and doubtful. _He knows what I have to say._ “If my Queens and I refuse your offer, I must warn you, do not get in our way. The Faith Militant will be dealt with, one way or another. They and any who aid them will come to know my House’s words.”

Baelor did not take kindly to the threat. The knight’s eyes raged while his face remained unfazed. Leyton played his part well with a stern face and cold eyes, showing neither fear nor anger. The Hightowers bowed their heads again and turned on their heels to march off to their tents on the far side of the tourney grounds.

“He knows your answer,” Ser Arthur Dayne warned him once the Hightowers were gone.

“Aye, he does,” Jon agreed. He doubted it would have gone any other way.

“Shall I have them arrested?” Arthur asked.

“No, let them go. We still have time, time enough for Lord Leyton and his sons to plot and scheme and make a mistake. They will find a way to place their heads on the executioner’s block,” Jon decided. _They should pray Varys and Maynard do not discover the evidence I need if they wish to keep their heads a while longer._

**Queen Rhaenys Targaryen**

While her king received Leyton and Baelor Hightower, Rhaenys returned to the royal tent with her fellow queens. She would have preferred to stay and listen to their foe spin his web of lies, but her absence was for the best. Rhaenys had already spoken some words with the Lord of Oldtown upon his arrival in King’s Landing, but their time was short and without negotiation. _Any more false smiles and lies to my face, I may lose patience with our plans and have him thrown in chains._

Within the white walls of the tent, the Queens held court with ladies belonging to the most loyal of Houses from the Seven Kingdoms and Essos. Spread across the red Myrish carpet, each Queen ruled her own solar of sorts. Before the servants brought forth the fruits and wines, Rhaenys struggled to find an empty chair or sofa.

Larra Blackmont and Catelyn Stark were just two of a dozen or more ladies to occupy the chairs nearest Rhaenys’ mothers and grandmother. Catelyn Stark’s words were few and her sips from her cup fewer. Even after so many years, the wife of Eddard Stark did not find it in her heart to forgive Ashara Dayne for Harrenhal and Allyria, or so Rhaenys guessed. Lady Alerie Tyrell, sitting amongst the Velaryons, ignored her wine cup and saved most of her words for Queen Rhaella. Mace Tyrell’s widow was kind, dignified, and a mystery to Rhaenys. There was nothing to indicate Alerie’s involvement in her lord father’s plots, yet Rhaenys could not shake her suspicions.

Daenerys treated with ladies from Houses Blackwood, Selmy, Royce, and more. Arya, Senya, and Naerys did their duty and kept the youngest girls from wasting a queen’s time with rumors of court. Sansa Arryn and Roslin Tully flanked Daenerys’ left while Irri and Jhiqui sat to her right. The Dothraki mistrusted any Westerosi born without the Targaryen name and Rhaenys could see that mistrust in the former handmaidens’ eyes. None of the ladies attempted to converse with the Dothraki, save Mya Redfort. Lady Sansa’s best friend and Robert Baratheon’s bastard daughter was seemingly unafraid of the foreign women. _The others only know their castles. If they had spent their life climbing the path to the Eyrie, mayhaps they would have Mya’s bravery._

In contrast to Daenerys’ circle of whispers and formality, Rhaenys’ sister received her ladies in her own way. Arya Baratheon and Dacey Mormont were Visenya’s closest companions, sharing jests and recounting tales from their childhood in the North. Margaery Stark was never truly Visenya’s friend when she was just a Tyrell, but her time as the Lady of Winterfell had changed her. She could speak of the Wolfswood and northern feasts without boring Visenya with masked balls at Highgarden and pleasure boats along the Mander. Princesses Dany and Sansa shared little in common, yet both proved themselves capable of winning over the wild girls of Bear Island and the ladylike daughters of Claw Isle.

When Rhaenys was not watching Dany and Sansa from afar, she was carefully noting Nymeria and Daenys’ interactions with the highborn daughters of Dorne. They laughed and spoke in hushed tones with Daynes, Blackmonts, Vaiths, Fowlers, and Qorgyles. The princesses reminded Rhaenys of herself and her fostering at Sunspear. If it were not for the friendships she and Arianne built during those years, Rhaenys wondered how difficult it might have been to set the Dornish Houses against Ellaria Sand and the Sand Snakes.

Nymeria and Daenys’ friends were not the only ones seated around Rhaenys. Arianne Martell and Allyria Tyrell sat amongst many of her old friends. There was Jynessa Blackmont, heir to House Blackmont and a beautiful woman all Dornishmen lusted after. Mariah Yronwood, formerly a Vaith, and Dyanne Dayne, formerly a Fowler, were also there to remind Rhaenys of Dorne. Jynessa, Mariah, and Dyanne showed her the beauty of the Water Gardens and the murky waters of the Greenblood. With Arianne, they showed herself and Allyria the hidden alleys of the Shadow City and how one should negotiate with the merchants of Planky Town. This was the first time they found themselves all in one place since Rhaenys wore a crown.

“Your Grace, you wished to speak of Lord Tytos?” Lady Jeyne Lannister asked Rhaenys, distracting her from Arianne’s compliments for Allyria’s orchards outside Highgarden. Jaime Lannister’s ladywife looked nothing like a Lannister, but she supposed that was a good thing. Jeyne was thin and beautiful, with eyes as blue as the sky, brown hair almost as dark as Rhaenys’, and breasts large enough fill a man’s hands.

“Yes, Lord Tytos and his son, Ser Ryon. Tell me of him, the son,” said Rhaenys, wanting to hear if the Lady of Casterly Rock knew something she did not.

“Ser Ryon? He was my father’s page, before the wars, and his sister, Cassella, was my best friend. I have seen him at tourney, but I will not lie to you and say I know the man. I only knew the boy. I can tell you he is capable with a lance and Jaime says he is decent with a sword,” Jeyne warily replied. Rhaenys could not decide if Jeyne’s unease was caused by her presence or some concern for Ser Ryon Brax.

“Just decent? Well, I suppose that should not matter. Would he make for a dutiful husband? Do you know if he frequents brothels? Does he have any bastards?” Rhaenys asked. Varys did not find any bastards who could claim Ser Ryon Brax to be their father, but Rhaenys wanted to be sure before she arranged a betrothal.

“Bastards? No, none that I know of. If there were, rumors would have reached Casterly Rock and I should think Lord Varys would know of any bastards. As for whores, so many men frequent brothels, I would not presume to say whether Ryon has them or not,” said Jeyne. _Not all men. Not our husbands, thank the gods._ “If I may ask….Why does your Grace wish to know these things?”

“I have received more than one raven from Wayfarer’s Rest. Lord Karyl’s daughter is unwed and his lordship does not think the men of the Riverlands worthy of her,” Rhaenys explained.

“Liane Vance?” Jeyne asked hesitantly. Rhaenys nodded in confirmation and a shroud of doubt fell over Jeyne’s face.

“You do not agree with the match,” said Rhaenys.

“Forgive me, your Grace, but Lord Tytos hates Lord Karyl and I am sure his hatred is reciprocated. Houses Vance and Brax fought more than once on the battlefield. It will be difficult to get either of them to agree,” Jeyne offered her counsel. Rhaenys understood the enmities that laid between Houses Brax and Vance, but she did not begrudge Jeyne for warning her.

“That is why I need your help. With some convincing and a queen’s blessing, I promise Karyl Vance will see the wisdom in this betrothal. Tytos Brax will not be persuaded as easily, would you not agree? A queen, he might refuse, but a queen and the Lady of Casterly Rock? No, I think not,” Rhaenys replied.

“Why me? Why not ask Jaime?” Jeyne asked as the servants returned with more Dornish wine. Most accepted, but Rhaenys covered her own cup. Her ladies could drink and jest and enjoy the tourney, but Rhaenys was a queen and she needed her wits until the night’s feast.

“Because Jaime will be…less delicate with this betrothal and I had heard you are fond of arranging betrothals. I want peace between the Riverlands and Westerlands. A marriage between a son of Hornvale and a daughter of Wayfarer’s Rest will ensure peace along your border,” Rhaenys added and waited for Jeyne’s decision.

“Lady Maris was always kind to me and she is my mother’s distant cousin. I will speak with her first and then I will go to Tytos after she has whispered in her husband’s ear,” Jeyne revealed her plan to approach the Lord of Hornvale. “But I must warn you, he will likely have some demands.”

“House Vance has fertile lands with plenty of food to feed their smallfolk through winter. House Brax cannot say the same. This marriage will see Hornvale never starves come winter. Be sure to remind Lord Tytos of that. Any minor disputes can be resolved before this tourney ends, I will see to that,” Rhaenys swore and raised her cup of Dornish red.

“To Ser Ryon and Lady Liane,” Jeyne raised her cup and toasted to the betrothal. Her smile seemed genuine, but Rhaenys felt there was something off about it. Her presence made Jeyne uneasy and she could not reason why.

“Riña Talisa, emā daor vestās iā udir,” said Rhaenys, noticing the Volantene’s silence. Malaquo Maegyr’s daughter was Volantis’ highest-ranking emissary attending the King’s Tourney and the only one House Targaryen trusted.

“I do not know Dorne,” Talisa responded with a nervous smile and a nod toward their Dornish companions. “And you may speak the common tongue with me, your Grace.” _A pity then. I do not speak High Valyrian as often as I should. Only at night…_

“Let us speak of somewhere else then. Tell me of Volantis,” said Rhaenys. She remembered the city for its warm nights and painfully warmer days, as well as the butchery that took place during the sacking. The corpses of slavers, obedient slave soldiers, and the free lowborn littered the streets of Volantis. Rhaenys remembered the smell of blood and death covering Volantis for a fortnight. The bloodshed went too far, but it secured a lasting peace and Volantis was one of the more prosperous cities within their Realm.

“It is still hot and humid. I take my children to swim in the Rhoyne on the warmest of days and after, we walk the Long Bridge. Most days, it is a struggle to make your way through the crowds. The shopkeepers have more wares from Westeros and the Jade Sea than I can ever remember. The city watch has made the western districts safe enough for a woman to walk alone at night unharmed and unafraid. Your Graces should see how the city has changed. Your palace is empty and waiting,” Talisa offered the tempting invitation.

“Soon, in a few years,” Rhaenys assured while sparing a glance toward her daughters. She wondered if Nymeria or Daenys would partake in a royal progress through Essos. _I want them to see Volantis and Meereen and Lys again, but will they want to? Will they have children of their own to keep them here?_ “You said nothing of the Red Temple. Do the red priests still stir troubles within the city walls?”

“They follow the King’s laws if that is what you ask. Kinvara and her priests are loyal to House Targaryen, but it is R’hllor they worship. They do not call for violence against the other faiths, but they are known to look the other way with some of the more…devout priests. My father has had two of them hanged this year for murder and the desecration of other temples,” Talisa explained.

“I will send word to the Red Temple then. Kinvara will no longer look the other way,” Rhaenys promised with a feigned confidence. Talisa seemed to believe her, but Rhaenys was not so sure herself. _Will Kinvara follow more decrees? She has always seemed the devious sort…Mayhaps we should replace her with Melisandre._

“Lady Talisa, your accent…you do not sound like you learned the common tongue in the free cities,” Jeyne Lannister ended a momentary silence.

“I first learned the Common Tongue from one of my family’s slaves, but that was before I left Volantis. I learned to lose my accent when I came here,” Talisa replied without explaining why she ever left her home. _I will ask her why, another time._ “I was a healer, going from town to town in the Riverlands before the war. I did more of the same during the war, only I travelled from battlefield to battlefield with the army.”

“Which army?” Jeyne inquired.

“Lord Stark’s,” Talisa answered, almost apologetically. “But it was not just northmen and rivermen I healed. There were men from Ashemark as well. The healers do not choose who they aid, at least the good ones anyway.”

“You said you had children, did they come with you? I should very much like to meet them and their father,” Jeyne said politely without knowing of Talisa’s husband.

“They are here. Their father is gone…He was sailing from Lys and…the spring storms took his ship and two others,” Talisa told Jeyne what Rhaenys already knew. Talisa Maegyr’s husband belonged to one of the few old families to survive the sacking of Volantis. He had command of the Volantene army and was given the task of negotiating new trade terms with the Lys’ ruling council before he set sail, never to see his family or Volantis again. _I pray it truly was a storm that took him and not pirates._

“I am sorry,” Jeyne offered with regretful eyes and a heavy lump weighing in her throat.

“You need not apologize. You did not know,” Talisa replied before Jeyne went on to tell the Volantene of Casterly Rock’s view of the sea, the port at Lannisport, and the towers of Ashemark and the high hills that surrounded her family’s castle. Rhaenys stayed silent and remembered her royal progresses through the Westerlands as well as her conquests in Essos when Talisa began to speak of Volantis and the Summer Sea.

Well past midday, after hours of trading court gossip and recounting memories from long ago, Rhaenys noticed a lieutenant of the household guard approaching. Seated between Arianne Martell and Jynessa Blackmont, she abandoned her sofa to meet with the guard. “Your Grace, they are here,” the guard quietly informed her.

“Send them in,” Rhaenys commanded before turning to the ladies at her back. “My ladies, I am afraid this is where we part. Nymeria, Daenys, you will stay.”

Nymeria and Daenys remained, as did Allyria Tyrell and Arianne Martell. As the ladies of the most loyal Houses left the royal tent, members of the Small Council entered with the lords of the Great Houses. Robb Stark crossed the tent to claim a seat at the great table with Margaery joining his side. Willas Tyrell and Harrold Arryn followed, Allyria and Sansa with them. Gendry Baratheon was not the Lord of Storm’s End yet, but he took his place at the table. For many years, he occupied Stannis’ seat on the Small Council and he was not asked to leave on account of Stannis’ presence.

Grey Worm and Missandei led the Essosi contingent into the royal tent and to their seats at the far end of the table, after the Small Council. The Essosi nobles bowed their heads with smiles as they passed Rhaenys and her fellow queens. _Not all of you will smile when this is done._

Jon was the last to enter. Varys was at his side, whispering secrets, and Ser Arthur Dayne trailed behind with his hand resting upon the pummel of Dawn. Varys went ahead to join the others when Rhaenys came forth to speak with her King. “The Hightowers?”

“Everything went as we expected, except he did not seek just one betrothal. He proposed Rhaegar wed Meredyth and Arya wed Addam. In return, he promises he can rid us of the Faith Militant and find us a more loyal High Septon, his cousin. He also promised to put an end to these Ironborn raids, but he said nothing of the corruption in Tyrosh and Myr. Mayhaps we were wrong,” Jon said.

“Or Tyrosh and Myr were simply distractions,” Daenerys added.

“What do you think?” asked Visenya. _We should have them all thrown into the Black Cells._

“We wait, let them make their mistakes. This is the difficult way, but it is right,” Jon disagreed with Rhaenys’ silent protest. She decided to say nothing, knowing Daenerys and Jon were intent on holding a fair trial with true evidence and testimony. They wanted to prove the guilt of House Hightower and the Starry Sept so those who worshipped the Seven in the Realm could not call them servants of the Red Temple or Valyrian gods. “You disagree?”

“I do not like the risks we are taking to do the right thing, but this is no time for us to argue,” Rhaenys replied before turning to the great table at the far end of the tent.

“Aye,” Jon agreed and gave her hand a loving squeeze before leading them to the great table. Every lord, lady, magister, councilor, and archon stood and bowed their heads.

“Your Graces,” the council echoed. Rhaenys took the seat to Jon’s left, next to her own mother and grandmother. Daenerys, Visenya, and Lyanna claimed the seats across from them. The princes and princesses present were seated away from the table, only there to watch, listen, and learn from their rule.

Once everyone was seated, Daenerys broke the silence, “I am sure some of you are wondering why you were asked to attend this tourney. We can assure you, it was not to bore you with melees and jousts, nor to entertain you at feasts. Each of you are here because of the corruption and small treasons that have taken place these past nine years. Some of these crimes have been greater than others and those who have broken our laws have learned the consequence of betraying our trust.”

Rhaenys looked to their faces as Daenerys spoke, studying them all. Some were more nervous than others. The men from the Bay of Dragons shifted in their seats the most. They had seen countless Houses fall to House Targaryen and several were afraid they were the next to fall, despite their innocence. A part of her was concerned to learn their Essosi subjects were afraid of an unjust punishment. _No, let them fear us. A sea and more separates us from them. Let fear of our rule and power keep them in line._

“You are here because each of you have proven yourselves loyal,” said Jon, easing the tension around the table. Jaren Redfort and Cregard Mormont came forth, placing sealed scrolls before each Essosi emissary at the table. “And some of you will be rewarded for that loyalty. If we are to maintain the peace, if we are to prevent the cities from returning as they were, Essos must change.”

“The ruling councils will remain as they are. No one will lose their seat. Essos is not Westeros and the people we freed will have a voice, but the councils will cede their martial authority. Archons will have command of every city watch, army, sellsword, sellsail, and navy. If war comes to your cities, the archon will have total authority over the city until a war is ended,” Visenya informed the table.

“Every archon will have a seat on the ruling councils as they do now,” Rhaenys added, confirming they were not sending Westerosi lords to rule cities across the Narrow Sea. That relieved most, but some of the men remained cautious. _They are eager to hear if it is them we chose._ “But their votes will still count the same. In addition to their martial authority, the archons will oversee the collection of taxes and possess the authority to arrest those suspected of corruption or treason. From this day forth, members of the ruling councils suspected of these crimes will be sent here to face our judgement. The scrolls placed before you are strict instructions that are to be given to the councils.”

“Illyrio Mopatis, you have been a loyal friend to House Targaryen for many years. I have not forgotten the hospitality and protection you provided myself and my Queen, when we were in exile. You shall be the Archon of Pentos,” Jon named their first archon. _Protection…It was you who protected Illyrio._ “Domeno Tragar will hold the title of archon in Braavos, as will Tregore Premar in Lorath. Saenar Velaeris, Taenor Belaris, and Naelarys Vemaereon will have the honor to serve Myr, Tyrosh, and Lys as archons.”

Each man was chosen for different reasons. The Braavosi was one of the first captains to defect to their side during the conquest. Tragar identified the few weaknesses in Braavos’ defenses and advised Aurane Velaryon how to strike at the Braavosi fleet within the lagoon. Lord Tregore was given the title of archon because he was loyal and the Lorathi council had no mind of its own and followed his orders.

Velaeris and Belaris were bestowed the title of archon for their military minds and the improvements they had made upon their armies and navies. Naelarys Vemaereon was not Rhaenys’ first choice for Lys’ archon, but Jon respected the man who had bravely defended Lys to the bitter end. House Vemaereon was an ally of House Targaryen, before the Doom, but the close ties were forgotten until Jon spared Lord Naelarys from death. The Lyseni proved himself a loyal subject in the years since and Rhaenys accepted her husband’s decision to name a capable commander archon rather than a loyal dog.

“Lady Talisa, I trust you to tell your father he has been named the Archon of Volantis. Lady Mellario, I expect you will send a trusted emissary to Norvos to tell your brother of his new title,” said Jon, earning a thankful nod from Arianne Martell’s mother. “Qallar Vangar is named Archon of Qohor. I trust his son will bring this news to his father.” Sivero was chosen for his ties to House Martell and Malaquo Maegyr was the only man left in Volantis with the strength to lead its armies and wealthy enough to refuse bribes. The Qohorik was selected to appease Kinvara, for Qallar Vangar maintained strong ties with the Red Temple and promised the followers of R’hllor safety within Qohor’s walls.

“Nyat Neren Noxos will be Qarth’s archon,” Jon declared in a steely tone, warning the Qartheen’s nephews not to forget the decree on the long voyage back to Qarth. _Must they always give themselves needlessly long names?_ Jon did not recite Nyat’s entire name, nor his reason for selecting the spice trader. There were two dozen traders in Qarth with greater wealth than Nyat, but none were more trustworthy nor capable of holding the Straits of Qarth from the corsairs of the Basilisk Isles or the foreign fleets from the Jade Sea.

“Sendhal Qahl, Prendhal Rhazak, and Kragare Maelleryon are named archons of New Ghis, Tolos, and Elyria,” Jon continued, pleasing the men at the far end of the table. All three came from the first noble families to free their slaves and bend the knee to House Targaryen. Their Houses were not the wealthiest nor strongest before the conquest, but they were the dominant powers after.

“Alarr Vaemyr, you will serve as our Archon of Mantarys,” Jon announced, pleasing the young lord. House Vaemyr was a minor Valyrian family, but proud. It saw the opportunity to rise when House Targaryen began its conquest of the Bay of Dragons. Rhaenys found the young lord eager to please and easily malleable, like his father before him.

“Astapor’s archon shall be Naezhar Zherak and Yunkai’s, Dahaz Karraq,” her King went on, naming men who were born into poverty before becoming the most powerful men in their respective cities. “And Daario Naharis is granted the title of Archon of Meereen.” Rhaenys waited for her husband to say something clever to remove the grin from Daario’s lips, but that was not Jon. _I forget myself. He would not undermine Daario’s standing amongst the others._

“If any of you have something to say on this matter, say it now,” Daenerys warned their Essosi emissaries. Not all at the table were happy with this decision, but they did their best to hide the disappointment with pained smiles.

“Your Graces, I believe I can speak for every archon when I say there will be those on the councils who will disagree with this. They will argue this change is unnecessary, a punishment for a few corrupt magisters in Myr and Tyrosh. Ceding their authority over the armies will leave a bitter taste in their mouths,” Naelarys Vemaereon found the bravery to say what the others dared not.

“Remind them the armies and navies ultimately answer to the Iron Throne. They rule their cities and lands with House Targaryen’s blessing. If they believe new rulers are needed, they can follow their predecessors and stand against us,” Rhaenys answered the Lyseni, though her choice of words was intended for the Qartheen and the men from the Bay of Dragons. The threat of rebellion was greatest in Qarth, New Ghis, Tolos, and Elyria, cities far away that had never seen grown dragons in their skies.

“And what of the Dothraki?” Taenor Belaris inquired, looking to Kovarro and Rakharo.

“Our bloodriders will continue to rule Vaes Dothrak and the Dothraki Sea in our name,” Jon replied, caring not to explain to loyalty of their bloodriders. Taenor Belaris accepted Jon’s answer and said nothing more.

Rhaenys thought that was the end of it until a nervous Naezhar Zherak leaned forward in his Astapori silks to ask, “My King, my Queens…Will the Bay of Dragons come to be ruled by a prince?” _Zherak is as frightened as mouse chased by a cat, but he is the bravest one here, it seems._

“Perhaps. Nothing is decided. Should some of my sons or daughters choose to leave King’s Landing to rule in Essos, I trust you loyal lords and ladies will respect them and follow their commands. If they are to rule, it is because I have deemed them worthy of ruling,” Jon swore with the voice of a king sure in his judgement. Rhaenys looked to her children to find the surprise in their faces. Daenys, Naerys, and Sansa did not hide their disappointment well, as opposed to their twin brothers who took the news better than expected. _I wish I could tell them…no, they must wait. It is a surprise._

“Should this news disappoint the councils, remind them of our House’s words. I will not tolerate plots of treason and I will certainly show no mercy to those who seek to undermine my children should they choose to rule in Essos,” warned Visenya, expecting every archon and emissary to relay the warning to the others across the Narrow Sea.

Past the tourney grounds, a barge drifted slowly down the Blackwater Rush with three river runners in tow. The barge’s bow and stern were stuffed with stacks of wood while the midship was loaded with grain. Old men and young boys manned the river runners stowed with lesser wares intended for the wharves outside the Mud Gate. Rhaenys eyed the river captains and the men who oared their boats through the blue and pink waters, and wondered where they came from. _Do they call the God’s Eye home? Mayhaps they come from a small village near Tumblers Falls or Stoney Sept._

When there was a King’s Tourney, the city of King’s Landing found itself consumed by the festivities. Children abandoned the streets and their homes for the tourney grounds to see the knights in their armor. With the children went half the smallfolk, leaving Fishmonger’s Square and the Street of Flour near empty. The Street of Silk and the Street of Steel were different. By the hundreds, lords, knights, squires, men at arms, and other tourney goers flooded these streets. The blacksmiths and brothelkeepers always brought a smile to Lord Ardrian Celtigar’s face at the end of every tourney, for their tax was more than enough to pay the City Watch for an entire year.

The Blackwater Rush and its many river boats reminded Rhaenys most of her people were going about their lives without the pageantry of a tourney. Stonemasons were repairing their lord’s castle walls, blacksmiths were forging new steel, farmers were tending to their crops, washer women were cleaning their lady’s wardrobe, cooks were stirring their pots, septons were praying in their septs, and boys were helping their father sail down a river to King’s Landing. For much of her Realm, it was just another boring day in a long summer. _These days must remain plain and boring and dull._ Boring and dull meant her people were not dying in another war and Rhaenys knew that.

“Your Grace sent for me,” Rhaenys heard the familiar voice and turned her eyes from the river runners to see Lord Jaime Lannister standing with Ser Barristan Selmy. The Lord Commander of the Kingsguard tried to wear a stoic face, but he did not fool Rhaenys nor the Warden of the West. Jaime pretended not to care for the opinions of others, but Rhaenys could see he tried to mask his feelings. His face was unreadable, but his eyes were full of shame and regret. _Ser Barristan’s contempt wounds him greater than an entire Realm calling him Kingslayer._

“I did,” Rhaenys confirmed as she continued to scratch Shadow behind the ear. The sight of Jaime in his crimson and gold doublet still seemed foreign to her, especially as he stood beside Ser Barristan the Bold in his white cloak and the silver and gold armor of a Kingsguard. She noticed her guard’s hand resting upon the pommel of his sword, so she continued, “Ser Barristan, you may stay there.”

“Your Grace…,” Barristan Selmy tried to argue with concern and doubt weighing on his voice.

“Shadow will protect me from any pirates or bandits,” she replied. _And Ser Jaime._ The refusal pained Ser Barristan, but the dutiful knight stayed and kept a watchful eye on their backs. Jaime escorted her down the gradual slope of the grassy riverbank to the water’s edge. Rhaenys did not fear for her life with Jaime, but she kept her direwolf at her side to deter other threats and assuage her sworn protector.

“Do forgive Ser Barristan, if you can find it in your heart to do so. He is most protective,” Rhaenys said. The Lord Commander was always a cautious man, but the deaths of King Rhaegar and Prince Aegon filled his heart with sorrow and regret. He was never the same after that and Rhaenys recognized the greater precautions he took to protect her family.

“He does not trust me with you…By rights, he shouldn’t,” said Jaime. _He should_ , she wanted to say but the words never left her lips. Shadow seemingly agreed with her. The direwolf paid more mind to the river runners wading downriver.

“It seems so long ago,” Rhaenys mused when one of the boys on the river runners pushed a girl overboard, into the dark blue waters painted by the eastern sky.

“Aegon…,” Jaime remembered. It was her eleventh nameday, after a morning ride along the coast. Just one of her father’s gifts was a river galley to sail down the Blackwater Rush. Miles from King’s Landing and some hours before sunset, Rhaenys found herself caught unawares and fell into the river after a shove from her brother. Jaime had his armor off and was into the water before anyone else could go in after her. “Your sister pushed him in after you, if my memory is true. Your father scolded your brother and sent him to clean the stables for a fortnight, but I remember his Grace laughing when your sister avenged you. Sometimes, I remember days like that one and…”

“Don’t. Whatever we say, it will not change what led us to here. The past is past,” Rhaenys warned her former guard and sworn sword. Jaime said nothing and Rhaenys watched the children swim back to their father’s boat. “On their eleventh nameday, I take my children onto our river galley. Every time they unfurl the sails and push off the docks, I silently hope to see one of my sons pushing their sister into the water. More often than not, it is my daughters pushing my sons overboard. They are good swimmers.”

“They are,” Jaime agreed, confusing her as to how he knew. “Casterly Rock,” he reminded her of the royal progress through the Westerlands. The eldest princes and princesses leapt from smallest of cliffs into the Sunset Sea. Only Arya and Rhaegar dove from what could truly be considered a cliff. Their siblings jumped from lesser heights.

“Cerelle and Tya, how have they taken to King’s Landing? Torrhen says he has made friends with Jason,” said Rhaenys.

“My girls love silk dresses, Myrish lace, jewels, gallant knights, and girls who like what they like, so yes, they have taken to this city,” said a disappointed Jaime.

“Have they made new friends, besides girls from the Westerlands?” asked Rhaenys. She knew from Jaime’s ravens, his children were close to their Marbrand and Lannister cousins.

“They have the unfortunate honor of being the daughters of the Kingslayer. Or is it Queenslayer they prefer to call me now? I have heard both,” Jaime replied, leaving Rhaenys at a loss for words. _What can I say to that? Fuck them? Ignore them? He has heard it all from Jeyne, most like._ “Jeyne encouraged them to befriend the others. Argella Baratheon and Jeyne Arryn ignored them, no doubt their mothers’ doing. Jocelyn Stark asked them to join her and your own daughters for a ride, but Cerelle and Tya are poor riders on ponies. Cerelle said Mara Martell was nice, but forgive me if I do not trust your cousin’s daughter, even if she no older than eight.”

“I will not lie and say my cousin does not hate everyone with the name Lannister, but Mara is a sweet girl. I can assure you, there is no deceit in her kindness,” Rhaenys promised. Jaime’s emerald eyes seemed to a disagree, but he kept his thoughts to himself. “On the morrow, I will send for your girls. They will ride with Vaella and Alysanne. I cannot promise Jeyne Arryn or Argella Baratheon will warm to them, but a dozen others will.”

“I thank you, even if my wife will not,” said Jaime.

“Have I done something to offend Jeyne?” asked Rhaenys. _She was a kind and gracious host at Casterly Rock. And today, she was warm and friendly, yet…_

“It isn’t anything you have done,” answered Jaime, doing his best to avert his eyes from her own. Rhaenys welcomed the silence between them until her stare compelled him to continue. “My wife, she loves me, but I do not think she trusts me.”

“Why?” Rhaenys asked with a furrowed brow.

“You,” said Jaime. _Me?_ “When I was forced to choose, I chose you and not Cersei. I killed Cersei, for you. Jeyne knows I have killed men and broken every sacred vow that I have sworn for Cersei. She was the mother of my children and my sister and I chose you. She misunderstands my love for you.”

“Your love for me?” Rhaenys replied.

“You were the closest thing I ever had to a daughter. You were more my daughter than Myrcella ever was, it pains me to say. Jeyne does not see that. She does not understand it,” Jaime explained.

“Have you told her?” Rhaenys asked, knowing Jaime was never one to explain his thoughts or motivations. The Seven Kingdoms called him Kingslayer and never once did he defend himself. He never said it was Queen Rhaella’s plea that led him to driving his sword through his king’s back.

“I have tried,” answered Jaime. _You haven’t._

“Do you love her?” Rhaenys asked. _Does he care enough to tell her? Or does he wish to punish himself in a loveless marriage?_

“I did not marry her for love. Her brother was my best friend, she was widowed as you know, and House Marbrand is a strong and loyal House. It was a marriage a good lord would choose, would you not agree? I did not love her, not the way I loved Cersei, but then she gave me a son. He brought us together, I think,” Jaime said, smiling when he mentioned his son. “I love her more than I ever loved Cersei. I do not tell Jeyne enough, but she has given me everything. There are no lies or secrets with her. Tommen and Myrcella were never mine, not truly. I told Myrcella, but then… Tommen never knew or he never acknowledged it. Jason and Cerelle and Tya are mine.” _He does not say Joffrey’s name. Is that for me or did he never have love for that monster?_

“You should tell her what you have told me,” Rhaenys advised.

“Is that a command from my Queen?” Jaime asked with a smirk on his lips.

“No,” Rhaenys said and turned to look out onto the river again. The pink western sky that painted half the Blackwater Rush was fading, canvassed by the dark blue and black of night from the east. “It is advice a daughter would offer her father.”

When Rhaenys took her eyes off the river and turned to Jaime Lannister, it was the closest she had ever seen him come to tears, but he was too strong and stubborn to allow that. Her father was dead, as was her uncles, Lewyn and Oberyn. Jaime was not just her former sworn shield and protector. He was the closest thing she had left to a father and for that, she embraced him with a hug he kindly accepted.

“Now, if you would, escort your Queen to her tent. After, I pray you will go to your wife and speak with her. I should like for her to consider me a friend and not her enemy,” wished Rhaenys.

“Your Grace,” Jaime agreed and took her arm in his to lead her back toward the sounds of a lively camp. Shadow padded along, through the grass, up the sloping riverbank to a waiting Ser Barristan Selmy. When they reached the royal tent, Jaime took his leave and made for the Lannister tents across the tourney grounds. _If he does not tell her, I will know._

**Princess Sansa Targaryen**

It was the fourth day of the King’s Tourney and the tourney grounds were just as lively as they were the first day. Sansa could smell the bacon, eggs, venison, and a dozen more familiar scents from the camp’s thousand cookfires. Blessed with another day and night without rain, she dared to leave the Red Keep in one of her finer summer dresses. Daenys wore a red Meereenese dress with barely enough silk to cover her breasts while Naerys chose a Yunkish dress for herself that matched her eyes and complimented her curves.

Sansa settled for a Westerosi dress of winter rose silk and just enough Myrish lace for her own liking. Her dress was just one of Lady Annara Rosby’s many gifts to House Targaryen, meant to reclaim their once enviable standing amongst the Houses of the Crownlands. If it were possible, Sansa would have mimicked her sisters and chosen an Essosi dress for herself, but she lost all her confidence whenever she tried them on. Sansa was thin and beautiful, but her breasts were modest compared to her sisters and the Westerosi dresses hid that, or so she hoped.

“We are late,” Daenys judged when they arrived at the Street of Rubies and Gold, as it was named by the merchants. Unlike the Street of Gold within the walls of King’s Landing, this street was laid with planks of wood instead of cobblestone and lined with tents or the odd hovel. Many of the same shopkeepers and merchants sold their wares here, for the Street of Gold lacked its normal crowds during a tourney.

“If we had dragons of our own, we could burn them away,” said Sansa as she looked on at the masses flooding the makeshift storefronts. Most of the patrons were highborn or the family of wealthy merchants, for the lowborn could not afford the silks from YiTi, nor the gold trinkets from the Westerlands. The smallfolk that did wander the street were easy to spot with their roughspun clothes and the stares they held whenever they saw a Targaryen.

“A jest,” Sansa defended herself when she saw the dark look Naerys gave her.

“An unwise one, considering the Seven Kingdoms have almost forgotten our great-grandfather’s crimes,” Naerys replied to Sansa’s annoyance. _It always comes back to the Mad King. Must Father save the Realm again to make them forget and forgive?_

“All Seven Kingdoms would thank us if we burned their lot,” Sansa decided to test her sister’s tolerance, nodding to the four Ironborn stalking the jewel merchants. Their clothes were soiled and dirty, their beards were unkept, and each of them possessed the eyes of murders. Naerys said nothing, deciding a stern glare was enough. _You say nothing sister because it is true. No one likes the Ironborn._

“When do you think the eggs will hatch?” asked Daenys after Moonlight and Stormfyre flew overhead.

“Soon, I hope. I grow tired of asking our sisters for flights to Crackclaw Point and Sharp Point,” Sansa complained. _I am a Targaryen, I should have a dragon of my own. I will fly with Brandon to the Arbor and taste Lord Paxter’s finest wines…_ Somehow, Misty heard her thoughts and treated her with a disapproving look. _I did not forget you, girl. We would not be long._

“You should be patient. Aemon says it could take years,” Naerys counseled as they followed their direwolves across the sometimes-unsteady wooden road.

“Aemon says,” Sansa teased her sister. _If I had a silver for every time she said that, I could buy myself an army or even a petrified dragon egg._ “You would do well to ignore half of what our brother says. He is blind to many things. You know that better than all of us.”

“And you would do well not to trick yourself into thinking you can will your egg to hatch. Aemon may be blind to some things, but he has read more books than you or I, Sansa. We will have our own dragons when we are meant to have them,” Naerys defended herself and Aemon without sounding too cross with Sansa. _Mayhaps she is right, but Father and Mother Daenerys did not wait…even if those eggs had turned to stone._

“I say Viserra had the right of it. Take your egg and settle into your hearth tonight. See if it cracks and a little dragon may crawl its way out. What is the worst that could happen? Your chemise burns away? Brandon would be pleased to see that, not that it matters since he has gone to your bed for the past three nights,” Daenys surprised her. Daenys nor Naerys were the sort to tease or whisper clever japes. That was saved for Sansa. _How does she know Brandon sneaks into my room? And she is wrong…_ “What? Our brother is not as careful as he thinks.”

“Brandon has never…we have never,” Sansa whispered, mindful of the household guard following their every step and the crowds that surrounded them as they passed the Tyroshi selling emeralds and sapphires.

“Liar,” Daenys named Sansa, rolling her amethyst eyes with a disbelieving smirk on her lips.

“I am not lying. He has seen me, but we have never…done anything. He sleeps in my bed, that is all, I swear it. We promised we would wait,” Sansa told as much of her truth as she dared. Brandon wouls cup her breasts and kiss her neck while she pressed her ass against his hardness. Sansa enjoyed that, even if her chemise and his breeches kept them apart. She never dared to take things further for fear of being caught and the punishment her brother would face since they were only thirteen years of age.

“I believe you,” Naerys said kindly.

“I do not,” Daenys giggled to herself.

“Believe what you want, just promise you will not go around spreading this tale you have conjured in your head. I would hate to spread whispers of what you and Valarr were doing three nights past, before the feast,” Sansa playfully threatened her sister. Daenys did not laugh as she expected. Instead, Sansa saw her sister turn pale, into a frightened and nervous little girl. “I was only jest…It is true. What did you do?” she questioned Daenys, pulling on her sister’s arm to come closer.

“We…,” Daenys tripped over her own twisted tongue while her eyes darted back and forth, afraid of someone else listening in. Naerys stepped closer, curious to hear what their sister had to say.

“Tell it. I can see it on your face, it was good,” Naerys demanded with an excitement and curiosity in her voice.

“He gave you the lord’s kiss, didn’t he?” Sansa asked. Daenys tried to hide it, but the smile on her lips gave everything away.

“That, and I…,” Daenys started to reveal her little secret until she lost her nerve.

“You…,” Naerys tried to say something until they heard their names called from the ruby merchant’s tent. Brandon approached with Aemon and Valarr, each of them in their black or brown leather jerkins over black breeches and boots. The silver dragon brooch she had gifted Brandon was pinned to his chest. That warmed her heart for he detested such finery. _Do not think you have escaped our questioning, Daenys. We will hear it all after the feast._

“We were beginning to fear you had crossed the river and fled to the Kingswood,” said Brandon. Misty permitted his approach, too distracted with her sister, Quickstream. Brandon ignored their direwolves’ innocent growls and snarls and lifted her chin to grace her lips with a gentle kiss.

“That was foolish,” said Sansa, letting her eyes fall to her skirts he had seen her wearing when they left the Red Keep.

“Aye,” he admitted. Sansa wanted to kiss him again but dozens of onlookers surrounded them and she was not as bold as Aegon and Nymeria. Her eyes made due, drinking in the sight of Brandon’s amethyst eyes, perfect cheekbones, and his hidden raven curls what were tied away, the same way their father wore his hair. “Have you found something you like?”

“Then allow me,” Brandon insisted, pulling her along to the Tyroshi’s tent. Within laid a hundred rings, necklaces, and other jewelry. The sea of green and blue stones was beautiful to behold, but Sansa preferred rubies and amethysts. Rubies suited Targaryens and amethyst stones matched her eyes.

“My Prince! Princess, it is an honor…,” said the merchant in his hurried Tyroshi accent. _He does not know which prince and princess he is speaking to. I suppose that can be forgiven._ The man moved as quickly from the back of his tent to greet them as he did when Sansa’s mothers visited his shop near Cobbler’s Square.

“This one,” Brandon decided, lifting up the most elaborate sapphire necklace she had ever laid eyes on. She counted twenty-one stones, seven greater than the others. The greatest sapphire glimmered in the sunlight as her brother dangled it before her eyes. It was then she understood his choice. _It matches my dress._ Once the pearls around her neck were gone, replaced by the sapphires, Brandon placed his hands on her hips and edged her before a small looking glass.

“You do not need them, but they look beautiful on you,” Brandon whispered before placing a kiss on her neck. Her reflection was poor and distorted, but she believed him. She could not remember a time she did not trust her twin. He had never lied to her or deceived her. Brandon had loved her and protected her for as long a she could remember.

“It is too much. Mother will…,” Sansa attempted to persuade her brother from spending all of the gold dragons he was sure to have. The necklace was meant for a queen or a lady of a great House with tremendous wealth and she could only guess what her mother would say. Dragonstone’s royal vaults were filled with gold, silver, sapphires, rubies, and more, yet Queen Visenya taught them not to flaunt such wealth. _Mother will strangle me if I return wearing this._

“I do not care what she will do. This is my gift to you,” Brandon said. She thought to protest, but her brother was away, negotiating how many gold dragons would pay for her necklace. Instead of returning the necklace to its place amongst the other jewelry, Sansa stared at her own reflection. She sorely missed the sight and feeling of Brandon standing behind her, caressing the sapphires resting upon her chest.

“Our mother may frown upon this, but remember sister, the sapphire mines are ours. In the end, its true cost will be half of what Brandon will pay, likely less,” Aemon jolted her from her daze. Naerys was at his side with a small, simple diamond hanging from the silver around her neck. _No amethysts? She always chooses amethysts._

“Do you like it?” Sansa asked her sister, knowing she would regret it.

“It is pretty and you will certainly make your rivals at court jealous,” Naerys said warily. _Good, they deserve it._ “Perhaps something less…queenly would do.” _I could be a queen. I do not want to be, but I could._ Sansa did not say that, knowing how some might take it if they overheard such a thought.

“I say it is meant for a princess,” Brandon returned to leave a peck on her cheek.

After the Naerys politely refused the merchant’s attempts to sell an emerald ring, Sansa went with her siblings in search of Valarr and Daenys. Through the crowded Street of Rubies and Gold, they came upon merchants proclaiming to sell rubies from Valyria, a Volantene with three Valyrian daggers to trade, two captains from the Summer Islands offering caged parrots and barrels of cinnamon, and a Qartheen woman praising the power of her vials filled with shade of evening. The Essosi were outnumbered by the familiar faces of King’s Landing’s shopkeepers, merchants, and sea captains. There were many unfamiliar faces as well. From Oldtown, an old man and his grandson came to sell a wayn stacked with books from the Citadel. A boatwright from a fishing village on the God’s Eye in service of House Whent promised he could build the swiftest river runners and the most comfortable pleasure barges.

Naerys was the first to spy their brother and sister at the end of the street where the wood planks ended. On their way, Brandon inspected the spears forged by three blacksmiths that called the Street of Steel home. Her brother complimented the steel and told the hopeful blacksmiths he might consider one or two.

Ten yards beyond the blacksmiths, they were delayed by whores from the Street of Silk. The blonde one came to them with her breasts bare and said she had never had a prince before. Sansa thought the auburn haired one was truly pretty, but she was even more desperate for her brothers’ coin, discarding what little thread covered her skin. Their Myrish companion had the dignity to cover herself, but Sansa saw deviousness in her black eyes. Her brothers offered kind refusals, but Jonquil sensed Naerys’ annoyance and bared her teeth for the whores, chasing them away.

Lord Theomar and Lady Ravella of Acorn Hall delayed them further. Lady Ravella complimented Naerys’ intricate braid and delighted Sansa with kind words for her new sapphire necklace. The Lord of House Smallwood assured them he wagered all his purse on Rhaegar and Aegon reaching the final joust. Sansa eventually grew tired of the lord’s admiration for Brandon’s abilities with a lance and pulled her brother away with the excuse they were expected elsewhere.

“A mummer’s show?” asked Brandon. Sansa felt just as confused as her brother, furrowing her brow as they came upon the company of mummers. There were only two of them at the center of the stage, gazing upon each other with lovesick eyes. The man looked stronger than most mummers, but it was doubtful he was any use with the wooden sword at his belt. Sansa knew the story they were telling when she laid eyes on the silver-gold wig worn by the Pentoshi beauty. _We have heard this tale a thousand times. We even lived some of it, what little I can remember._

“Ned said he had never seen one and Myranda insisted we stay for the first act,” Daenys almost whispered as the audience encircling the stage listened carefully to every promise the mummer prince made to his princess. Myranda Blackwood seemed less interested in the show and more interested in the heir to Winterfell. Back and forth, Sansa watched her friend share whispers and lustful glances with her Stark cousin. It was no mystery why Ned favored their friend. Myranda was kind and adventurous and unafraid to ride into the Kingswood, leaving their guard behind. She could also play the part of a perfect lady in her red dress. Small ravens fluttered along her neckline and waist, but the dead weirwood was nowhere to be found.

“You leave them be,” Naerys threatened Aemon and Brandon before Sansa could. She guessed Brandon would make some cruel jape at the expense of Ned’s doomed affection and Aemon would offer practical, yet heartless counsel to dissuade the couple. _Our cousin certainly looks in love, the way he stares at her._ Every time Sansa glanced over, Ned’s eyes were drinking in Myranda’s beauty.

“They have forgotten the bloodriders,” Sansa whispered so only Brandon could hear. She leaned her head against her brother’s shoulder after the prince unsheathed his sword to defend against the khal’s raised arakh. _Where is Ser Jorah? Rakharo and Kovarro? Illyrio Mopatis?_

“Or they simply wish to save their coin. Three bloodriders means more mummers to pay and dress. I am impressed they found this Myrman. He looks half Dothraki and he is almost as large as they say Khal Drogo was,” Brandon replied as the prince ran through his foe with the wooden sword.

“If they want the Iron Throne’s favor, they would do well to tell it right,” Sansa decided, knowing what Queen Rhaenys expected of the mummers and singers she rewarded with silver and gold. Her mother demanded truths and heroic exaggerations, not the lessening of House Targaryen’s deeds.

When the mummer prince and princess left the stage, the play turned its focus to King’s Landing. Sansa endured the inaccuracies and painful truths, wearing her royal mask as she watched the mummers depict Cersei Lannister and the traitorous uncle she never knew. It was impossible to find a girl amongst the crowd who had not shed a tear when the Prince of Dragonstone promised to wed his sister. Before the mummers could retell the betrayal that killed Sansa’s grandfather and uncle, the play returned to her parents’ journey to Vaes Dothrak.

Bored and frustrated with the company of mummers, Sansa glanced over both shoulders, searching for anything that might draw her brothers and sisters away from the play. At her back, the temporary street remained crowded by the masses of smallfolk and nobles. Hedge knights swarmed the blacksmith tents, ladies rich and poor visited the jewel merchants, little children from the city and beyond waited in line to have their faces painted in the colors of their preferred champion, and the whores circled every man of wealth like crows over a battlefield. _I should have our guard send them away, this isn’t the Street of…_

Sansa lost all concern for the whores when Rhaegar wandered down the street with Meredyth Hightower giggling and smiling at his side. Every smile and giggle infuriated Sansa a little more than the last. She was staring daggers at the girl and cared little if anyone could see, especially the Hightower girl. _Does she think my brother will fall for those breasts or her sweet, innocent voice? I do not have a dragon, but I do have a direwolf that could ruin her pretty face._

“He won his second match. Perhaps she thinks he will name her Queen of Love and Beauty if she keeps him to herself,” Brandon said without any hint of worry in his voice. Her brother was fearless and she loved him for it, but Sansa felt uneasy watching Meredyth escort Rhaegar through the tourney grounds and not Arya. She wished her brother would dismiss Meredyth from his presence, even if he understood the threat the Hightowers posed better than all of their siblings. _Why doesn’t Father have them thrown into the Black Cells? He is the King._

“I will ask Aegon for his forgiveness after, but I pray Rhaegar wins so I can see her tears when Arya is crowned the Queen of Love and Beauty,” Sansa nearly whispered, always mindful when she spoke of her eldest brother and sister. Rhaegar and Arya’s love still remained a secret to many and Sansa did not intend to be the one to let the entire Seven Kingdoms know the Prince of Dragonstone’s heart was taken.

“He has a good chance, sister, but this tourney is far from over,” Brandon warned her. Rhaegar triumphed with ease over a knight in service of Lord Alesander Staedmon the day before. Sansa enjoyed cheering on her brothers and looked forward to yelling Aegon’s name later in the day when he would face Ser Sebastion Mallister. “I am better than Rhaegar with the lance and spear. If I had known Ser Arthur had the time, I would have trained for the joust,” Brandon complained.

“Don’t be foolish. You are too young. I know nothing of jousting and I know this,” Sansa countered, rolling her eyes at her brother before pulling on his jerkin to steal a kiss. Brandon was excellent with the lance, but she knew he still lacked the strength of the men he would ride against in a tourney.

When her braided hair had finally come undone, her silver mane tumbled down her shoulders. The fourth day of the tourney was past and the morrow was not far off. Her handmaiden should have been waiting for her return, but the Dothraki girl was nowhere to be seen. It was an inconvenience that Sansa could forgive, so she found her comb and began the slow process of smoothing her hair.

From her bedchamber, Sansa could hear the sounds of a city that refused to sleep. Beyond the walls of the Red Keep, celebratory cheers and songs rang through the streets and alehouses. _More drunkards than bards, I presume._

Little time passed before Sansa found herself combing through the same hair. The sapphires splayed across her chest demanded her focus. Her matching dress was gone, replaced by a silver chemise made of the finest silk. Under the flickering candlelight, the changing shades of blue filled her with awe. Brandon’s kingly gift was more than she ever expected of him, for she was sure he had spent all his purse and more.

_How can I thank him?_ Curled at her feet halfway underneath the dressing table, Misty offered her no counsel. Sometimes it felt like her direwolf could hear her thoughts, but not this time. Instead, the bundle of grey-white fur quirked her head before licking Sansa’s ankles. _You have grown so fast. In three moons time, you will not fit there._

“My love! I cannot thank you enough for…,” said Sansa as she excitedly leapt from her chair before the dressing table. The creak of her door and soft footsteps across her solar were welcome to her ears. In her rush to lay eyes upon her brother, she did not care to take in his sight within the looking glass nor mind the graceful footsteps of the intruder. _Mother…_

“Expecting your brother, were you?” Queen Visenya said with an arched eyebrow and admonishing violet eyes. Sansa had nothing to say to that as her mother gathered the nearest chair. Her mother came to her bedchamber in a grey nightgown that hid all her curves. The winds rolling through Sansa’s windows were not kind, making Maegor’s Holdfast warmer than usual. Sansa decided her mother wore a chemise similar to her own or nothing at all underneath her travelling gown, meant for the short journey from the King’s Chambers.

“Your brother’s gift was unwise. You would have done well to refuse him,” her mother continued, inspecting every sapphire with her delicate fingers. Her mother was a true warrior who practiced with sword and bow, yet her smooth hands did not tell that story. Sansa could only reason the old gods graced her mother with the beauty of a queen and the bravery of a knight. “But…what’s done is done. I expect this from Brandon, but I thought you would know better. You have learned so many lessons at court, yet…”

“I am to refuse a gift?” asked Sansa, knowing her mother would think it a pitiful excuse. _I knew I should have refused, but it is beautiful and Brandon loves me and it was his gift to me._

“If it is a sapphire necklace you must have, we have thousands in our vaults. There are likely hundreds here,” her mother replied, letting the last sapphire fall from her grasp. The queen studied her with the judgmental violet eyes that could send Sansa into a fury. “They look beautiful on you. This will happen again, no doubt. Brandon, my impulsive son… When he thinks to give you a splendid gift such as this with so many watching, send a trusted guard to acquire the jewels, when no one is around. Sansa, the lords of the Seven Kingdoms nor the smallfolk need to see a prince of thirteen purchasing this, like he would a loaf of bread on the Street of Flower. I am not saying you should not wear fine gems. Just take care when you go about acquiring them.”

“Why? He is a prince,” Sansa asked. _Princes give princesses necklaces and rings and silks._

“Because, this thing around your neck is worth more than the wealth of entire villages. Many lords and most knights cannot afford a necklace like this, not unless they wish to empty their coffers. I have tried to show you and your sisters and your brothers what it is like for the smallfolk, or even the poorest of highborn. It is why I drag you to Flea Bottom to see the orphans and the poor. It is why our progresses visit the lowliest of castles. Our family must rule the Realm and we must remember our people. Do not give them reason to hate you. Flaunting our great wealth will earn their hatred if it should become a common occurrence,” her mother answered in her calmest motherly tone.

“But..you rebuilt the Riverlands. You fed the smallfolk through winter,” Sansa remembered just some of what her parents had done for the Realm. _And we cleaned the streets of King’s Landing and improved the sewers. There is peace in the Realm. You saved everyone from the Night King!_

“Aye, that has won us their love, as have many other things,” her mother conceded with a smile. _She is about to tell me I am wrong._ “Still, it is better to take small precautions if we can avoid the ire of the smallfolk or the jealousy of petty lords who would tax these seven kingdoms thrice as much as we do. And I will be honest, sometimes, that will not be enough. Thousands in the Reach want our family dragged through the streets before torturing and killing us because their septons tell them the Seven consider us the worst of sinners. Leyton Hightower does not care about our family’s wealth or how many sapphires you wear around your neck. Some lords just want more. More power and more wealth and more lands and more people to rule. They will always want more.”

“I understand,” Sansa told her half lie. _She makes sense, yet…No, I will try. I must, or else, I must suffer more lectures._

“Sansa,” said her mother. There was suspicion in her eyes. Sansa wanted to squirm in her seat or crawl under her dressing table to hide behind Misty. She felt like a little girl again, knowing what was to come.

“Yes?” she meekly replied.

“Do not think I forgot who you thought entered your chambers,” her mother said. _We haven’t done anything! Go to Daenys’ room. Ask her what she has done! Ask Nymeria and Dany! Ask Arya! Even Senya. She plays the modest princess, but I know the truth._ Sansa no longer wished to hide. She wanted to scream and rage for her mother allowing her sisters to bring her brothers into their chambers. “I can see you are angered with me. It is understandable, I suppose. I know you love your brother, but I must insist you refrain from…must I say it?”

“He was just going to sleep in my bed. That is all! I swear it!” Sansa almost yelled, eager to defend herself and Brandon, even if it was a half-truth. Whenever he snuck into her bed, she would find ways to let her wandering fingers touch his cock or sway her hips in a way that rubbed her ass against his hardness. All of it was done with their smallclothes on, but Sansa thought that might change soon.

“Even so, I want you to wait. Do not rush into things. I will not presume to tell you to save your maidenhead for marriage. I am not blind to what your brothers and sisters are up to, but I am sure they did not do certain…things at your age. Take things slow,” her mother suggested, though Sansa was not so sure it was not a command. _Take things slow? Like you and Father? Does she think I have forgotten when she reached Qarth and how long it took for Jon and Dany to be born?_

“I will,” Sansa promised just as Brandon emerged from the black of her solar. She almost laughed when he tried to hide before their mother could see. He was too slow and their mother rose from her chair. Sansa enacted her own sort of revenge for her mother’s lecture, undressing Brandon with her eyes, imagining her lips kissing his cock. Daenys had done that first with Valarr and that slightly angered her.

“Brandon,” their mother greeted him with a threatening look. It was all she needed to say to make him drop his head in defeat. After a swift kiss on his cheek, their mother was away and into the corridor outside her chambers.

“She frightens you,” Sansa accused her brother before he pulled her away from the dressing table. They both went crashing onto the silks atop her featherbed. Misty and Quickstream followed and proceeded to lick their faces.

“Aye. She doesn’t scare you?” Brandon said through heavy breaths after they were finished laughing at their direwolves.

“No,” Sansa said, trying her best to believe herself.

“That is because she cannot hit you in the head in the training yard,” Brandon argued.

“I suppose,” Sansa admitted.

“Here, allow me,” Brandon said when he noticed her concern for her necklace. She was forgetful when they fell into the bed. Sansa wanted to curse herself for almost breaking the necklace and losing one or more sapphires. After Brandon returned the necklace to her jewelry chest, he came to her with the hungry eyes of a wolf tracking its prey.

“We can only kiss,” she whispered against his bruised lips after catching her breath from a hundred kisses. Her brother accepted her terms, even if he seemed to forget the fear he held for their mother. When his lips claimed her own once again, his hands kneaded her ass and teased her breasts. It was not everything Sansa wanted, but it was enough. Her sister Arya once told her to take things slow with Brandon to cherish every new experience before moving to the next. _Mayhaps this is enough._

**Prince Edric Targaryen**

There were ten of them, when there should have been eight. Daemon and Benjen led their riding party from the tourney grounds onto a game trail filled with many twists and turns that always brought them back to the river. They went on for miles until the trail ended somewhere deep in the woodlands. Forced to double back, the knights in their household guard led Edric’s brothers and sisters out of the forest.

Ahead of Edric, Rhae kept her black Dornish mare on Daemon’s tail while Rickard complained of another day away from the training yard. _He is afraid he will lose all he has gained._ Aeryn rode alone in their column, likely brooding over being parted from his war galleys, longships, and swan ships. Behind Aeryn rode Brynden Stark, Arthur Tyrell, and Elston Tully. Edric did not want the Tully riding with them, but his Stark cousin insisted he come. Brynden and Arthur were good swordsmen and made for good competition in the training yard, but Elston Tully was another matter. The heir to Riverrun was a decent fighter, but everyone inside the Red Keep came to learn after a few days Elston chose his opponents wisely. His foes were either slow, weak, untrained, clumsy, or craven, but that never stopped him from boasting of his prowess.

Edric was at the rear of their column when they departed and found himself there again, with only his little sister Ashara there to keep him company. _Why is she even here? She never rides with us. She ruined last night._ He asked her what she was doing when she climbed onto the saddle atop her black Dornish mare. She called him a stupid fool and scowled at him. Edric dug his heels into his own sand steed and rode off with his brothers, thinking that was the end of that. Ashara caught up to them near the Blackwater Rush, full of smiles, giggles, and strange looks on her face.

“We must have taken a wrong turn,” said Benjen. The elms and maples were opening up before them, but the field ahead was not where they started. A dozen smaller, identical trails splintered off the one they had chosen to ride. Edric determined Ser Kevan Waters or one the sergeants had led them astray. _If I had a direwolf of mine own…_

“Look, there is the camp,” Arthur pointed to a sea of tents and banners as they reined their horses to a halt in the clearing. The roaring masses from the arena could be heard well over a mile away. Sitting ten abreast, Edric looked to his brothers and reaffirmed his grip on the reins to his sand steed. _Be quick and do not let the trout beat me._

“An open field, good ground, no rain in days…,” said Daemon, mirroring Edric preparations for the race to the river road.

“To the road. Last one to reach it loses their horse,” Benjen pointed to where he thought the road met the camp’s edge. It was impossible to see from the far side of camp.

“My Prince…,” Ser Kevan Waters tried to warn them.

“Go!” Daemon yelled. A summer day in the Crownlands meant warm air and depending on where you were, uncomfortable humidity. The protection of the forest’s canopy saved them from the sun’s unforgiving heat. A race across the open plain brought on a welcome cool breeze, preventing them from sweating like fishermen on the mouth of the Rhoyne.

Edric minded only the ground that lay ahead, searching for rocks, ruts, or holes in the ground that could spell disaster for himself and his favorite mount. The sand steed carried him a mile before he noticed Ashara trailing half a length beside him. Daemon and Benjen rode well ahead of the pack.

_Steady. Save your strength for the end. Let them tire themselves._ Edric’s horse followed his silent commands, keeping its patience without straggling too far behind. As they began to round the curve of the tent line and turn south for the river, Daemon and Benjen drew closer as their chargers started to fail them.

“I’ll have that horse, Daemon!” Rhae teased their brother as she edged ahead. Arthur followed her to the front while Brynden and Elston lagged behind with Aeryn.

“Make way! Make way!” Edric heard one of the household guards bellow as they closed the distance to the river road. The smallfolk walking to the tourney heard nothing. They scattered when one of the children amongst their ranks pointed and the rest scattered. With only ten more yards left to ride, Edric thought he had a chance to nudge ahead of his sister until his other sister lurched ahead. It was as if Ashara’s steed had sprouted wings and flown ahead, leaving them all behind like turtles racing against a wolf.

“I don’t want to give up my horse,” Elston Tully grumbled, announcing he was last.

“No one is losing their horse,” Aeryn calmed Elston’s fears.

“Is this one new? A gift from Grandmother Elia?” Daemon demanded answers for their defeat. His questions were not without reason. Their grandmother favored Dornish sand steeds and had gifted the tireless beasts to more than one grandchild.

“No,” Ashara meekly said before shying away from Daemon’s look of displeasure.

“Ashara is a fine rider. Arya, Dany, Nymeria, they have struggled to stay ahead of her,” Rhae came to Ashara’s defense. _She is also the lightest rider here. You do not say that. The steed is almost riderless, all horse and saddle._

“I hear there is goose, some lamb if you like, and crabapples waiting for us. I say we return to the tent before Ser Nigel Moore and Ser Lewys Caron joust,” Rickard reminded them all of the small feast waiting for them at the royal tent. During the King’s Tourney, a small feast awaited them every day shortly after midday. Edric felt hungry enough to eat the whole goose and two lambs for himself, but the joust had his attention. Ser Nigel was a champion of more than twenty tourneys and no one in the Realm could claim they were markedly better with a lance. The Knight of Nightingales was a surprise to all, unseating Ser Leobald Kidwell and Ser Lyn Jordayne, champions of the tourneys at Goldengrove and Darry. Edric thought it a crime one hundred and twenty-eight riders would go further than one of the two knights.

“Brandon has thirty gold dragons on Ser Nigel,” Benjen informed them as they straightened their horses into a proper column. Ser Kevan Waters rode ahead with two guards behind him to clear the road of merchants, men at arms, knights, blacksmiths, squires, pages, and the countless children who wandered the camp.

“Father would not approve,” Rhae said what they all thought. There were no laws against wagering on the tourney, but the King did not look kindly on coin lost to gambling. _I wonder what Father said when he saw Sansa’s necklace._ Edric thought to ask his siblings if they had learned their brother’s punishment, but there were strangers all around and they were taught to never speak openly about gold and silver and wealth.

The outer edge of the tourney grounds seemed an empty, desolate place. Knights and squires were here or there, tending to their horses or escaping the confines of their armor. Most were away at the arena or the lesser tilt yards or one of the melee fields. Smallfolk crowded the road, going to and from, but they were less than a tenth of the number that lined the road on the mornings of the King’s Tourney. The odd gold cloak could be seen patrolling the camp, searching for thieves. Edric looked for knights and lords, but only saw squires and pages beneath dozens of banners from the Riverlands.

“Edric, why is that knight looking at Benjen and Daemon like that?” Ashara asked, nodding to an old knight still in his dull grey armor, holding a stallion’s head greathelm underneath his arm. Beron Blackwood had said Ser Osgood Bracken was too old for tourneys and Edric agreed. The knight of Stone Hedge was staring daggers at their brothers and muttering curses under his breath. Edric wondered how many more grey hairs his brothers and the Blackwoods had added to Ser Osgood’s head full of brown and greys.

Edric did not respond until the old man was well behind them. Whispering so no one else could hear, “Did you see his helm, his breastplate? No? That was Ser Osgood Bracken. Benjen and Daemon went with Beron Blackwood and some of his cousins a day, no, two days ago. Blackwoods hate all the Brackens, but they hate Ser Osgood more than the rest. Something to do with the war, I think, maybe before.”

“What did they do?” Ashara asked after looking over both shoulders, mindful of Elston Tully riding at their backs. Edric did not know if the Tullys favored Bracken or Blackwood or neither.

“They put horse dung in his favorite leather boots. Beron said they were well-polished. Now they are ruined and I guess someone saw them,” Edric told his sister. Her dark violet eyes were shocked. She was speechless, for she knew as well as he did, they were not to involve themselves in any conflict between Blackwood and Bracken. _Benjen and Daemon should pray to the old gods Father does not find out._

“Were you with them?” Ashara whispered in a shaky voice. Edric shook his head, wishing he was there to stop them. _I would have told them to shovel the dung into Garon Penrose’s boots._ “Good.” _Good? Why does it matter to you?_

With the encampment of riverlords behind them, their progress through the Tyrell bannermen was swift. Several knights from the Shield Islands bowed their heads, said their pleasantries, and wished Edric’s brothers good fortune in the tourney. Arthur Tyrell named them all before telling of his visit to the Shield Islands a year past. Edric could scarcely remember the islands from the royal progress that saw them through the Reach.

The encampment of stormlords and crownlords was livelier than the maze of colorful tents from the Reach. Lords familiar to Edric were returning to their tents with their wives on their arms. The children, pages, guards, septas, and stewards followed close behind. Knights also came from the list fields, victorious, injured, or shamed in defeat. Ser Dalton Musgood rode past, prideful and smiling to himself, with a dozen small children with painted faces giving chase to his great brown destrier. A Connington followed, riding almost aimlessly in defeat with his shame hidden beneath a golden greathelm.

Before their company reached the rows of Velaryon tents, a hedge knight in service of Lord Ellard Cressey was carried away. The men carrying the wounded rider shouted for a healer and said something of the man’s shoulder. Edric saw no blood seeping from the man’s armor and heard no screams. _Dislocated shoulder and injured ankle, most like._

Outside the royal tent, Edric expected to find a dozen or more Unsullied standing their posts with spears and shields in hand. The Unsullied were there, but so was his mother, Queen Rhaenys, crossing the ground between the arena and the royal tent. Near the entrance, she waited with her arms crossed and her black furred direwolf resting on his haunches as the horses came to a halt. Edric was the last of his siblings to dismount and hand the reins of his steed to a stableboy.

“Go on,” his mother waved away Ashara. After his sister fled inside the tent, the queen greeted him with a pleasant smile. “You are late.”

“So are you,” Edric argued.

“A queen is never late, my son,” she laughed and kissed him on the brow. Edric tried to squirm away, but his mother had an arm around his shoulder. He hated when she kissed him like he was a little boy of five. _This must end. I am nearly a man grown._ “That Serrett girl came looking for you. Arwen, is it? I saw her dancing with you and…Was that your first kiss?”

“Mother…,” Edric grumbled, wishing she said nothing. It was uncomfortable to know his mother saw his first kiss. A part of him was grateful he did not notice her spying on him at the feast. Arwen Serrett was a beautiful maid from Silverhill with beautiful gold hair and blue-green eyes that could match the colorful dresses she wore to court. Not long after the Serretts arrived in King’s Landing, Edric learned their ladies preferred dresses as vibrant as their sigil.

“So, it was,” his mother smirked, too pleased with herself as she pulled him along. _How does she know?_ Inside the tent, he found his family and members of the Great Houses seated around the great table. A host of archons and Small Council members were there as well. Only two seats remained and one was saved for his mother. He would have to make due between his sisters Ashara and Nymeria. “Tell me, have you taken a liking to this girl.”

“No,” Edric lied. He did his best to hide the smile gracing his lips. He bit down hard on his cheeks and looked to the ground until the memory of Arwen Serrett’s soft lips faded.

“Yes,” his mother replied in a teasing voice before mussing his raven curls like she always did. “Be sure to dance with Ash. Sometimes, I worry for her. She feels lonely when no one asks her to dance.”

“Lonely? She ruined my dance with Arwen!” Edric forgot his lie. Arwen was his first kiss and everything was going so well the night before, until his little sister interrupted. Edric offered every courteous excuse he could conjure without cursing his sister. Ashara remained persistent and Arwen eventually moved on to dance with Gyles Banefort. “And now she won’t leave us be when we go for a ride on the game trails. She could have ridden beside Rhae or Arthur or Benjen all morning…”

“She is your sister. Do not forget it,” his mother warned him with a glare that soon twisted into a warm smile. “Now, your Lady Arwen Serrett…She would make a fine match. That lovely golden hair and those sweet blue eyes. She would make a wonderous good-daughter. Her presence would be most welcome at court, that much I am certain of. I have spoken with her lord father and lady mother and, well, I would not discourage the thought of that girl joining our family. We will speak of this again, before evenfall.”

Edric felt his head spinning as he took his seat between his sisters. Before him laid a plate of goose covered in a modest amount of peppers, peas, a Dornish plum, and a small cut of lamb. _Marriage? Mother speaks of it already? With Arwen? Was this arranged by Mother and Lord Serrett? Why does she like Arwen so much?_ Suddenly, Edric did not remember Arwen’s golden hair being so fair nor her blue-green eyes being so majestic. His hunger for the taste of a Dornish wine on her lips again was beginning to wane.

“Edric…,” he turned his gaze from his food to Ashara. His sister’s chin was quivering and she sounded nervous enough to trip over more than three words. “You..you rode well today. I was lucky I beat you. You should train for the tilts. I know you would be good at it. I know it.”

“Thank you, sister,” said Edric, wondering if he should feel cross with his sister or indifferent for cutting his dance with Arwen short. It did not annoy him, so much as his mother’s overly fond words for the girl who had given him his first kiss. _I won’t let her choose who I wed. Eddard and Aegon and Jon get to choose. Even Rhaegar…_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, Leyton Hightower knows Jon knows, mistaking the Targaryen's mercy for weakness. Chapter 14 is when things will escalate. I hope everyone like the Rhaenys&Jaime scene. Sansa is clever about some things, but naïve/immature about others. And Edric does not realize his mother knows how to manipulate him.
> 
> Also of note, I retconned The Second Targaryen Dynasty and removed Smalljon Umber from the Red Wedding plot. I know my fic is AU and not always book/show canon compliant, but I have been on a ASOIAF reread and it bothered me I wrote show Smalljon. 
> 
> Please leave any comments, questions, criticisms, etc. below. Next chapter will have a Prince Jon POV, but no others are planned yet.


	13. The Tourney's First Champion

**Prince Jon Targaryen**

Suvion woke him before dawn, as was intended. The direwolf nudged his snout against Jon’s shoulder again and again until the comfort of his featherbed was no longer enough to delay the morning. Rather deftly, Jon threw away his side of the covers so as not to wake his sister. In his slumber, he followed the blurry white fur of his direwolf to his wardrobe to find a suitable pair of breeches and a simple red tunic fit for his journey.

Finally dressed with his wits about him, Jon savored the sight of Dany lying in his bed, naked as her first nameday. The silk sheets covered little. Here and there, her soft skin was hidden from him. The rest was a beautiful painting saved only for himself. Lost in his gawking, another nudge from Suvion reminded him of the task at hand and away they went, quietly trekking across his bedchamber, through the solar, past a sleeping Dunk, and into the quiet corridor.

At the far end of the corridor, Ser Oswell Whent stood outside the King’s Chambers with Snow sitting on her haunches. Jon returned the kingsguard’s nod and went on his way in the other direction. Swiftly and quietly, they descended the spiraling stairs of Maegor’s Holdfast and weaved their way through the near empty halls. The handmaidens were not even awake, scurrying off to attend a lady or a princess or a queen. Only Unsullied and Targaryen household guards were seen throughout the keep, posted at corners and doorways chosen by Ser Barristan Selmy and Grey Worm.

While Maegor’s Holdfast laid asleep, as quiet as a crypt, Jon found the kitchens awake and full of life. Before he could even make his way through the bakers’ door, shouts and curses could be heard from without. Within, he found serving girls going to and from as a baker argued the importance of gravy in pies with a meat cook. The shouts and curses ended after the first serving girl noticed a prince was present.

Jon looked on with some guilt after the cooks and servants rushed about to ready the breakfast he had requested. Their routine was broken by his unexpected visit. He worried it may have all been too hastily done, but the plates he had asked for were perfect. The sausages were cooked just right, the eggs were how Dany preferred, and the bread smelled fresh from the ovens. He argued with the serving girls, fighting to return to his chambers with the plates in hand. They only relented when he was forced to remind them he was a prince and he could order them as he pleased.

Something felt amiss as soon as Suvion pushed open the door to his chambers. Jon’s eyes roamed the solar, searching for something that was out of place. There was still enough moonlight passing through his windows and the opening to his small terrace, proving everything remained where he left it. Dany’s violet Dornish dress was splayed across a sofa in his solar, his sword thrown on the other, and a pile of his clothes was left on the floor. Everything else in his chambers was left undisturbed and well-kept. Jon hated disorganized messes and never left it to the maids to attend his chambers. Dany was the only one who could make him forget his preference for well-kept quarters.

 _Where is Dunk?_ Jon finally remembered his sister’s direwolf and found he was not where he left him. Suvion ignored his confusion and padded toward the candlelight barely illuminating his bedchamber. _I woke her…_

“I did not mean to wake you,” he said after stepping into his bedchamber with their breakfast in hand. Dunk and Suvion were biting and wrestling playfully on the floor before his bed. Dany was standing at edge of his room. The candlelight revealed the sheen of sweat covering her body as she allowed the winds coming off the Blackwater to cool her skin.

“You did not wake me. Just a terrible dream, that’s all,” said Dany. Jon came to her side of the bed, throwing the silk sheets aside before setting the plates upon his bed. His sister eventually turned on her heels with a sadness she attempted to hide away until her smile proved true at the sight of breakfast. “Breakfast! You went to the kitchens for this? You did not have to.”

“I did,” he said as Dany joined him on the bed, taking the plate with the peppered eggs, strawberries, buttered bread, and sausage. “This dream, what happened?”

“Nothing, it was just a dream,” Dany brushed off his concern with the wave of her hand. His sister attempted to ignore her troubles with strawberries and eggs. Jon did not believe it was nothing and stared at her until she relented. “Fine! It was strange, but it felt so real. I was in a castle unfamiliar to me. I think it was in the North. There was snow on the ground and snowflakes in the air. Winter snow. I was running, from solar to solar, searching every bedchamber, hall, storeroom, passageway, tower…”

“What were you searching for?” Jon asked.

“You. I shouted your name, again and again, but I could not find you. I think it was Winterhall. What do you think it means?” Dany asked with a troubled look. “When I woke, you were gone and…”

“The kitchens, did you search the kitchens at Winterhall?” Jon tried to make a jest out of it.

“No, I did not search the kitchens,” Dany giggled and picked at the sausages. “How would I know my way around a castle I have never seen?” Jon did not have an answer for that and went about finishing what remained of his breakfast. They still had time before first light, when the skies would turn a lighter shade of blue and the castle would come to life.

“Jon…Promise me you will always be with me. I know I sound foolish, but when I woke, I…I was worried you were gone and…,” Dany almost whispered, losing confidence and strength with every word.

“Listen to me,” Jon set his plate aside and cupped his twin’s cheeks so she had nowhere to look with her violet eyes except his own greys. “We have always been together, always. We are not wed yet, but I am yours and you are mine. Our mothers can drive us mad sometimes, but they were right about us. We came into this world together, meant for each other. Do you remember White Harbor? Not the progress, but during the war.”

“I remember. It was so long ago, but I remember. The Merman’s Court, the snow, that grove near the city’s gate…,” Dany confirmed.

“Do you remember the New Castle’s godswood? We were just little children, but I meant it when I said I would always protect you. I swore before the old gods I would marry you and be with you forever. You were right. Your dream was just that, a dream. Our future is us, together,” Jon promised with the hope his sister did not think him silly for remembering promises made when they were small children.

“I like the sound of that,” Dany smirked and crept closer to leave a searing kiss on his lips. “My Prince of Winterhall.”

“Good,” he said before stealing one last taste. “Now we must hurry. We do not have long.”

“Yes,” his sister agreed before she fled the bedchamber to retrieve her Dornish dress. Dunk went after her and Suvion followed. _You are supposed to be mine._ With the direwolves chasing after his sister, Jon cast his tunic aside and yanked off his breeches. He chose a grey tunic, more suitable for the day. After the tunic, he gathered fresh smallclothes, clean socks, his favorite black jerkin, a decent pair of black riding breeches, and dirtied leather boots. The last of his belongings he gathered was his sword, sheathed in its scabbard on the sofa in his solar.

To Jon’s delight, he came upon his sister trying on a new pair of riding breeches before the full-length looking glass within her wardrobe. In contrast to his own chambers shrouded in darkness, Dany’s rooms glowed in the candlelight. Without smallclothes, his sister treated him to the sight of her pretty cunt’s reflection. Knowing he would not have another chance until evenfall, Jon moved in and stole a handful of each cheek, greedily kneading Dany’s ass.

“You are perfect,” he whispered more than once between the trail of kisses he left at the nape of her neck.

“You said we must hurry,” Dany reminded him, swatting away his curious hands. Only her breasts remained and Jon tried to knead those as well, but his sister slithered her way from his caring arms to find her own tunic and jerkin. Dressed all in black with some red thread around her neck, she presented herself as a Valyrian princess ready to wage war against the competing archers. Dany’s hair was intricately braided in the Dothraki fashion, her clothes were more northern than southern, but there was no mistaking her amethyst eyes and silver hair for anything other than Valyrian.

The sleeping castle allowed them to slip away from Maegor’s Holdfast unnoticed and unimpeded. The stables were as quiet as their family’s keep, with only two stableboys awake and about, tending to the horses in their stalls. Jon and Dany found their mounts and saddled the horses before one of the stableboys could notice.

All that remained were the main gatehouses and Jon knew it was impossible to pass without escort. The captain of the gates saw their approach before they were halfway across the outer yard. Jon and Dany were given three guards each before they were permitted to pass through the parting gate.

The streets of King’s Landing proved as easy to navigate as the corridors and yards of the Red Keep. From Aegon’s Hill to the King’s Gate, their horses were allowed to gallop up and down the cobbled streets with hardly a soul to take notice. They pulled on their reins twice, once for a drunkard stumbling and staggering before Visenya’s Hill and later for five gold cloaks questioning a farmer with his wayn and ox near the King’s Gate.

The skies had faded from black to a dark blue before they reached the royal tents and dismounted their horses. Brushes of gold and pink crept across the eastern horizon. Jon led Dany to the straw targets he had placed near the grove that separated tourney ground from river. Suvion and Dunk stayed with them for only so long before they disappeared into the woods. Their noses caught a scent of prey and Jon was not about to refuse them the hunt.

“Another,” Dany demanded after emptying her third quiver. His sister emptied the first from fifty yards out. Every single arrow she loosed hit the bullseye painted onto the straw. It was more of the same when they stepped back another fifty yards, with her grouping venturing no further than six inches from the center. At two hundred yards, her arrows spread another six inches, but each hit the target.

“I told you, your time is wasted practicing at close range,” said Jon. Dany did not bother to look at him as he handed her the fourth quiver full of arrows. Her eyes were focused on the target further afield, some three hundred yards away. Jon watched with pride as his sister nocked another arrow for her longbow, slowly pulled on the string, aimed with some care, and loosed. Still well within range, her arrow struck its target, only twelve or so inches from the bullseye.

“We practice every strike, parry, and sidestep in the practice yard. Why should it be any different on the range?” Dany disagreed and loosed another arrow. Jon followed its arching path through the morning sky until it fell some three inches closer than the one before. His sister laughed to herself after that. “You surprise me, brother. You, least of anyone, should criticize another for thorough preparations. You spend more time sparring than Rhaegar. Even more than our father, if Mother speaks true.”

“I practice because I must. If I were as skilled with the sword as you are with your bow…I would certainly spend more time away from the training yard,” Jon tried his best to lie. The smirk on his sister’s lips told him she picked up on his momentary hesitation. In truth, Jon loved the training yard and the pressure he put on himself to become even half the warrior his father was. With Daeron or Valarr’s natural abilities and instincts, he would still spend hours practicing with his sword.

“This next arrow says you are a liar,” Dany declared. She loosed another arrow and this one hit its mark. “See? If there is one thing I know, it is our father and mother taught us practice and discipline. Without one or the other, even the most gifted archer or swordsman can be bested. And I know you enjoy defeat as much as I.”

“Leygood, Uller, Harlton, and Whent are all good archers, but this Remmon from the Rainwood, he is better than them all,” Jon counseled his sister as she went through her quiver, loosing arrow after arrow.

“And what of Edwyle Flint?” Dany asked of the son of Flint’s Finger.

“He should concern you most of all. No one noticed, but he always went last through the rounds, doing just enough to advance. If he goes last, do not ease your concentration. He will do better than the lot of them,” Jon answered.

“Mayhaps the old gods will favor me with some luck and I will go last,” Dany proclaimed with confidence, unafraid of the pressure that would come with being the last of the archers.

“You do not need it,” he whispered into her ear. Dany relaxed in his embrace, leaning her back against his chest while his arms held her close. Dunk and Suvion emerged from the grove with tails wagging back and forth. Jon did not miss the blood-stained fur on their snouts. “No more than they need it on a hunt.”

“Dunk, to the river. Go! And you as well,” Dany commanded both direwolves to wash the blood off from their kill. Dunk scurried off at first command. Jon’s own direwolf hesitated until Dany raised an eyebrow and nodded for him to follow. Her warning look was enough to send Suvion padding away with his tail between his legs.

“No matter what happens today, will you fly with me? I am tired of tilts and feasts and I sorely miss Vyraxes. I hear her cries in the mornings. She is bored with the skies above King’s Landing and you know she does not like to fly far without me,” Dany mused as they glimpsed a flock of dragons circling above the city.

“Aye,” Jon agreed while attempting to remember when he had last run his hands along Darkskye’s scales. His dragon’s scales were hot as a flame and a darker blue than the darkest of sapphires. The first six days of the King’s Tourney proved long and taxing and the days before were more or less the same. There was little time to abscond from his duties at court to make his way to the Dragonpit. _Gods, I haven’t flown with Darkskye since Uncle Robb arrived._ “We could follow the river or fly to Hayford Castle. Rosby or Stokeworth even. On the morrow?”

“Today, after the archery is done,” said Dany. Turning on her heels, she ambushed him with her wanting eyes and charming smile. Jon felt disarmed and helpless to resist her, but in truth, he was glad for it.

“I cannot refuse a champion, can I?” Jon said without contemplating any alternative outcome from the archery. His response earned him a teasing peck on the lips before Dany seemingly changed her mind. Her second kiss was sweet and tasteful and searing.

“And what if another is champion? What if I fail?” Dany asked half-heartedly. _She needs to hear my assurances._

“You won’t,” Jon promised, knowing somewhere inside her heart, Dany held all the confidence of Arya or Nymeria. She never said it, but his twin was sure of herself and her own abilities. She never voiced her self-confidence. Instead, she demonstrated her self-belief every day in the training yard. Dany matched himself or Ser Arthur or their mother, blow for blow in their spars. And when she was not honing her swordsmanship, she was rivalling Arya with her bow at the range.

It was an unusual sight, seeing the masses of smallfolk and highborn cluttered amongst one another on either side of the archery range. From the simple viewing stands to the furthest targets three hundred yards down range, onlookers squeezed together to see the final round of the archery competition. All of them were there to see a princess compete against the greatest archers in the Seven Kingdoms. The previous year saw near as many attendees, for Arya captured the interest of the crowds as Dany had.

Jon came to the range early with his sister and their direwolves. They were there before the crowds and well before the King and Queens took their seats in the royal box. The lowborn outnumbered the highborn. It was not hard to tell them apart, for the smallfolk cheered Dany’s name louder and more fervently than any of the lords or ladies or knights that had come to watch the spectacle. More and more children with red thrice-headed dragons painted onto their faces filled the gaps in the crowd until there was no more space for others to join.

After the herald recited his parents’ names and proper titles, Jon stood with Arya on the foreground beneath the royal box. The Master of Games gathered the seven archers and each competitor blindly picked a different coin from a pouch to decide the order of the final round. Dany returned to them with a smile gracing her face. She had drawn the gold dragon, allowing her to go last.

While the others prepared their bows and inspected their arrows, Arya whispered small pieces of advice. Jon kept to himself and held his twin’s bow and quiver. His eldest sister was a champion of this very tourney and he was not foolish enough to think his counsel could be wiser than her own. As they waited for the first arrow to fly, Jon shifted his stance back and forth. Again, and again, he looked down to his sister’s bow, afraid he had ruined the string or done something to the grip.

Suvion noticed Jon’s unease. The loyal direwolf nudged his hip and licked his knuckles before quirking his head, almost as if he was telling him to calm his nerves. _I know, I am more nervous than Dany. Seven hells._

Just before the archery was to commence, he glanced over his shoulder to see if his parents were just as anxious. His father looked afar with a Valyrian steel crown upon his head and the kingly mask he wore at court. Like his father, Jon’s mothers looked across the archery range, occasionally sparing glances for the cheering smallfolk. His grandmothers sat behind the King and Queens, conversing with one another while the Kingsguard stood behind them. Vaella and Alysanne smiled when he nodded to them. His little sisters were the only ones in the modest royal box. The rest of his siblings sat with the great lords of Westeros and the archons of Essos in the viewing stands.

Serwyn Whent, a nephew of Ser Oswell, was the first to nock an arrow and loose. The son of Harrenhal wore a yellow doublet over black breeches, the colors of House Whent. Jon did not see a sigil sewn onto the archer’s doublet, but he did notice the man’s arrows were fletched with fine yellow feathers. Serwyn did well, earning applause and cheer when all of his arrows found their mark, spare two of the last seven intended for the furthest target.

After Whent came Ser Galhart Leygood in his orange doublet and dark brown breeches. Recently knighted, Ser Galhart was no older than twenty and walked about with a certain arrogance. Jon was amused to see five of the knight’s arrows fail to hit the targets at two hundred and three hundred yards away.

Lord Harmen Uller’s grandson, Leo, fared better than Leygood. Leo Uller was a squire to Lord Gerold Dayne and a friendly opponent in the training yard. Jon thought highly of the squire, but Uller’s swordsmanship did not compare to his marksmanship. Leo bested the archers before him. Only three of his arrows missed the furthest target and his groupings were tighter than Serwyn’s. _Leo is unlucky. He might have been knighted if Darkstar were here. Men have been knighted for less._

Jon had asked Leo Uller why he was in King’s Landing and Lord Gerold remained at High Hermitage. His friend explained Darkstar was needed at High Hermitage to oversee repairs to his castle’s walls, but that sounded untrue. It occurred to Jon, the Daynes were possibly marshalling an army in the Red Mountains on his father’s orders, so he did not press his friend for the truth.

In a doublet of silver and green over dark grey breeches, Lucas Harlton, a grandson of Lord Arwood Harlton, swiftly emptied his quiver of twenty-eight arrows. Harlton impressed early in the tourney, but he rushed through the first fourteen arrows. Jon initially thought it was overconfidence, but Lucas slowed his pace for the furthest targets. _He was nervous and let the crowd get to him._

“Remmon of the Rainwood!” bellowed the herald. Lucas Harlton, disappointed with his own performance, left the field in disgust, shaking his head. The archer in service of Lord Casper Wylde took his place. Remmon’s bow was the same as his clothes, unremarkable and forgettable. His roughspun tunic bared no sigil nor colored thread to represent his allegiance to the Rain House for he wore a tunic as green and dark as a forest and dark brown breeches to blend in with the bark of sentinels.

“This one is careful,” whispered Arya. _She is right._ For every arrow Remmon nocked, his eyes took measure of the winds or lack thereof, before drawing and loosing. Plain white banners were set every fifty yards on either side of the range to tell the archers of small gusts of wind. The banners had hardly fluttered since Jon arrived, making for a fair competition. If the winds were substantial for any of the archers, the competition would have been delayed.

“The others only minded when they moved onto the next target,” Dany smirked, for she was just as careful as Remmon.

At close range, Remmon proved just as competent as the others. His groupings were tightly clustered and always hit their mark. It was more of the same for the seven arrows he loosed at two hundred yards afar. All seven hit their mark, with only two buried at the edges of the straw. Two of his last seven arrows missed their target while the others were impressively close together. _Dany must not miss._

“Edwyle Flint!” the herald introduced the North’s only entrant in the archery competition. The sons and daughters of the northern lords cheered fervently for the archer. Flint marched forth in his black leather jerkin and grey lambswool breeches. He looked as strong as he was tall, no older than twenty-five years of age. _He would do well in the melee._

“Your Graces,” Edwyle bowed before the King and Queens like the others before him. After a nod from Jon’s parents, Edwyle turned his brown eyes to Dany and respectfully offered a modest bow. “Princess.”

“I wish you good fortune,” Dany politely offered. _I pray his arrows fall short._

Edwyle Flint’s arrows did not fall short. One by one, Jon watched in agony as the northman’s arrows filled the bullseye fifty yards away. The cheers from the northern children and even some of the lords only grew louder after Flint’s arrows fell within the bullseye one hundred yards away. Jon felt guilty wishing for their silence. The blood of the First Men ran through his veins and the old gods were his gods, the same as House Flint and the other northern Houses. If his sister was not competing, he would root for a northman. So few ever rode south for a tourney.

“You were right,” said Dany. Edwyle’s target at two hundred yards had seven tightly grouped arrows buried in its straw. Two of the seven found their way onto the bullseye.

“And you will do even better,” Jon whispered. Suvion and Dunk agreed, releasing soft yips of their own.

From three hundred yards out, Edwyle Flint loosed the seven arrows that remained to him. Five of the seven struck straw, all within the painted circles. The others dug themselves into the dirt, less than a foot away.

“Daenerys Targaryen, Princess of Winterhall!” Jon heard the herald call out as he handed his sister her bow and quiver. They were not married yet, but his father and mothers deemed it appropriate to give his sister her proper title. That filled Jon with pride, knowing Dany was to be his wife and his Princess of Winterhall.

“I did not change anything. I swear it,” Jon said as his sister inspected her bow from end to end. She gave the string a half-hearted draw and grazed her fingers over the red and black fletching belonging to her arrows.

“I know,” Dany whispered, searching for anything that could be amiss. Everything had to be perfect for her, reminding him how similar they were. Jon expected the same from his sword and armor before he sparred. His swords and armor were always clean and presentable when he entered the training yard.

“Remember sister, if you lose, the debate is over. I am the better archer,” Arya teased as the smallfolk began to chant Dany’s name. His twin said nothing, only pursing her lips and marching off with her bow and quiver. Once Dany was away, nocking her first arrow, Arya continued, “She will win.”

“Aye,” Jon agreed with the slightest feeling of doubt lingering in his heart. _She must._ He refused to contemplate another outcome. Moments after Arya won the last King’s Tourney, Dany vowed to do the same. Hardly a morning passed in the last year without Dany practicing her marksmanship. She was almost one with her bow, as was their mother.

The chants of his sister’s name fell away when she pulled on her bow string. It was so quiet, Jon could hear the snap of her bow and the strike of the arrow’s head into straw. Her first arrow flew straight and true, impossibly centered on the bullseye. Children cheered and lords applauded the first of twenty-eight arrows. Dany ignored it all and set about methodically nocking her next arrow before noting the slightest breeze rolling across the tourney grounds. Jon noticed the flutter of a banner here and another banner there, as did his sister.

Accounting for the smallest changeable conditions, Dany adjusted her aim for every arrow. Her first seven covered the bullseye fifty yards away, a grouping spread no further apart than Edwyle Flint’s or Remmon’s. With her first target finished, Dany calmly stepped aside to line up with the target one hundred yards away. Despite lying further afield, Dany’s second target nearly mirrored the first. One or two arrows may have fallen near the edge of the bullseye’s black paint, but they all counted the same.

“Now comes the hard part,” Arya mused as their sister moved onto the next target. Jon nervously gripped the sword sheathed on his hip and looked to Suvion for some assurance. His direwolf ignored him and silently maintained his watch over Dany beside Dunk.

Jon tracked every arrow, one after the other until seven pierced the third target, landing exactly where Dany intended. Vaella and Alysanne gleefully shouted her name from the royal box. They were the only voices he recognized. His other siblings were surely cheering for Dany as well, but their cries were drowned out by the chanting of the smallfolk. The people of King’s Landing found they favored princesses to the lordlings, knights, and freeriders who entered the archery competition.

Adhering to her precise routine, Dany nocked another arrow, looked to each of the banners for signs of wind, firmed her stance, raised her bow, drew on her bow string, adjusted her aim again, and loosed. Jon followed the arrow to its high peak and endured the endless descent until it landed on its intended target. _Ten inches to the left and she would have had the best shot of the tourney._

The next arrow was closer and the third after that. Dany’s fourth and fifth try at the target three hundred yards down range hit their mark, but did not come close to a bullseye. Jon tried to calm his nerves, but he only gripped his sword tighter and shuffled his feet as he anticipated the next volley. Dany’s sixth arrow missed, a mere foot or two short of the target. _Another miss, it will go to measuring the spreads._

“That was good of her,” Arya whispered beside him. Jon did not understand and turned to his sister with a furrowed brow. “Leaving this to the final arrow. They will speak of this for moons, maybe more, until the next King’s Tourney.”

“Dany would not do that,” Jon swore.

“Believe what you want,” Arya offered, shrugging her shoulders before turning her gaze to their sister readying her final volley.

Jon was sure no one wanted his sister to win more than he did, except for Dany herself. It felt as if time began to slow to a painful crawl as he held his breath with anticipation, watching and waiting for the next arrow to fly. Afraid he might be overcome by his nerves and do something foolish that might distract his sister, Jon averted his eyes from the banners, her arrow, her bow, and her stance. Instead, he let his eyes drink in her beauty. He studied her silver hair, woven into an intricate Dothraki braid, as well as the perfect curve of her ass in her favorite riding breeches. He remembered all the times he found himself between her perfect legs, tasting her sweet cunt until his daze was disrupted by the snap of her bow.

Lurching in a high arch, higher and higher into the sky her arrow reached. Her arrow almost stilled in the air, until it didn’t, falling and falling until steel met black-painted straw. It was an impossible shot, but his sister claimed a bullseye to win the archery competition. It was only when she turned on her heels and their eyes met, Jon realized his heart was beating out of his chest.

“Dany!” Jon thought he yelled his sister’s name with the others, but he was not sure. While he crossed the ground between them, he did his best to remember the norms and duties expected of him. Somehow, he resisted the urge to run to Dany and kiss her, but she did not. His twin sprinted toward him with her bow still in hand and leapt into his arms.

Still overwhelmed with joy for his sister, Jon almost fell over when his sister crashed into him. Avoiding a clumsy fall, he spun his sister around while she devoured his lips. Dany did not care if five thousand or one hundred thousand people were watching them in that moment. Her embrace only grew stronger, with her legs tightening around his waist and her arms wrapping around his shoulders.

“You did it,” he whispered against her lips, panting as he collected his stolen breath.

“With my squire’s help,” she giggled and stole his lips again. Dany was more than passionate with her tongue, winning her battle for supremacy. She was forceful, yet sweet and slow and caring. It did not make sense to Jon, but it was how it felt as they continued their searing kiss.

“I am no squire,” Jon managed to protest when he was finally freed from the heaven that was her lips.

“No, you are my prince. My brother and my love,” Dany admitted as he settled her back on her own feet.

“Aye,” Jon agreed. He meant to tell how much he loved her and how proud he was of her victory, but the cheers and applause turned to silence. The sound of footsteps descending the wooden stairs of the royal box compelled him to turn around. Flanked by their Kingsguard, the King and Queens approached with Valyrian steel crowns on their heads and prideful smiles on their faces. Flint, Uller, and the others formed a line to accept their rulers’ congratulations and well wishes.

“Come,” said Arya, pulling him aside so Dany could join the others at the end of their line. One by one, their father spoke a few words and complimented every archer. Their mothers followed, doing the same until the competitors were gone and Dany was all that remained. A few whispers from their father and hushed voices from their mothers sparked a pleasant smile on Dany’s lips.

The smallfolk and nobles quieted again when the King raised his hand. Jon always sensed his father hated these small speeches, but this one was different, as it was when Arya won. His father was King, but he spoke sparingly to large audiences outside the Throne Room, for his actions as a ruler and his heroics during the wars were enough to win the love of the people.

“Every year, from across the Realm, archers ride north and south to King’s Landing. Others ride from the west and a few sail across the Narrow Sea from the east. Every year, the King’s Tourney sees the Realm’s greatest archers compete against one another, to celebrate the peace, the rich harvests, and if the gods are good, a long summer. This year’s archery contest has proven itself to be a true test of our finalists’ talent and mettle. We should applaud these seven and what they have achieved this tourney. Their persistence, chivalry, and skill are to be admired by every citizen of the Realm,” the King said in a booming voice for all to hear, from the viewing stands for the highborn to the lowborn who lined both sides of the range.

“And it is with great honor, the Iron Throne proclaims Princess Daenerys Targaryen the champion of the archery!” Queen Visenya followed, once the applause had fallen. “And as the archery champion of the King’s Tourney, you shall receive five thousand gold dragons!”

“I am afraid five thousand gold dragons would be wasted on me,” Dany said for all to hear as men came forward with chests full of gold dragons. Every chest was protected by two Targaryen household guards and a gold cloak, for the faces of the city’s thieves were more familiar to the men of the City Watch. “I shall send this gold elsewhere, where it can be put to better use. On behalf of House Targaryen, I shall gift these winnings to Septon Gelnarr and the Sept of Flea Bottom.”

King’s Landing was just a tiny speck of light, flickering in the black of night. Darkskye and Vyraxes had taken them as far as Stokeworth before they turned back. They should have attended the feast held in the champion’s honor, but Dany loved dragons more than she loved feasts. She had once told him she felt a prisoner at feasts, whereas dragons made her feel free and powerful.

Jon could not argue with his sister’s reason. Atop Darkskye, hundreds of feet high into the sky, everything else below mattered a little less than it did before. Every flight was an escape from his princely duties and a chance to be alone with his sister. On the ground, whether it be the corridors of the Red Keep, the game trails in the Kingswood, the streets of King’s Landing, or the pleasant waters of the Blackwater Rush, they were never alone. Eyes were always on them, be it spies, guards, curious smallfolk, scheming lords, or knights seeking the favor of a Targaryen. The dungeons and secret passages of the Red Keep were the only places on the ground Jon supposed he could be alone, but those places could be dark and unpleasant for the most part.

Without a cloud in the night sky, Dany’s silver braid glimmered underneath a near full moon. Dany was the beacon he followed down the Rosby Road, along the coast, all the way to the city that was their home. Every now and then, he could lose sight of Vyraxes’ flame red scales in the darkness, but he could always catch sight of his sister’s fluttering braid.

Soon enough, the speck of the light that was King’s Landing turned into two specks of light. With more and more leagues behind them, the lights multiplied until there were thousands. Aegon’s Hill and Visenya’s Hill stood apart from the sea of white, yellow, amber, and orange lights. The red marble of the Dragonhall and the pale red stone of the Red Keep were illuminated by a hundred torches and braziers. _They look like two campfires surrounded by a thousand little fireflies._

Rhaenys’ Hill was different than the others at night, shrouded in darkness with only a dozen or so torches lit around the Dragonpit and a few more near the Unsullied’s barracks. When the ruins of the Dragonpit became more visible, Jon nudged Darkskye’s spiked scales to trail Vyraxes’ descent to the dragons’ lair.

Vermithrex and Drogon were asleep at the center of the pit, but a cry from Vyraxes stirred them from their slumber. Quite angrily, the awoken dragons hissed and screeched and roared at the sky. Jon prayed he would not find himself in the midst of one of their fights. Eventually, to his relief, the dragons made room on the dirt for Darkskye and Vyraxes to land.

“That was clever, with the gold,” Jon complimented his sister as he joined her climb up the ruins.

“It wasn’t meant to be clever. I did it because it is right,” Dany defended herself as they climbed and climbed until they finally reached the top of the ruins. They were provided a view of the entire city, well above the trees that surrounded the Dragonpit. Moonlight and Sonar were resting upon the stone ruins on either side of them, occasionally exhaling plumes of smoke.

“That’s not what I meant,” he apologized and quickly found their favorite spot. Jon sat against a half-ruined column of stone and Dany joined him with her back resting against his chest. He carefully wrapped her in his arms. Then, as he always did, he left a kiss upon her neck. “But the bit about the septon, that was clever.”

“I suppose,” his sister admitted. She knew as well as he how far the tales of Arya’s victory in the archery contest had spread. Tales of Dany’s triumph would be told in every inn, tavern, market, and alley in King’s Landing. In a moon, all of the Crownlands and most of the Seven Kingdoms would hear she gave her coin to a sept. The small gesture was worth more than five thousand gold dragons, for it would tell many of the smallfolk House Targaryen was no enemy of the Faith of the Seven.

“Jocelyn begged me to bring her with us,” said Dany, breaking a long silence.

“That would have been ill-advised,” Jon said, thinking on their adventurous little Stark cousin. _She might try and claim a dragon of her own._

“I promised we would take her, after the tourney. Senya has already told Elys she would take her over the Blackwater on Stormfyre. It was Lyarra’s idea, no doubt. Those two are inseparable,” said Dany, nuzzling more and more into his embrace.

“I am surprised you did not indulge their mischief,” Jon whispered into his sister’s ear. That made her giggle, something he would never grow tired of hearing. “Do you regret it, coming here instead of your feast?”

“No! Why would you say that?” Dany replied, sounding insulted by his question.

“To celebrate your victory. Everyone would be there. Our brothers and sisters, our cousins, all of our friends…Even the few you hate, you could torment as the tourney’s first champion. Sometimes I fear…I fear you pretend to hate these things on account of me. Instead of drinking and dancing with our sisters, you are here, trapped with me, staring at this city,” Jon confessed his ever-persistent worries and doubts.

“I am here for Dunk and Suvion,” his twin jested, alerting him to the direwolves’ presence. Both of their companions came padding up the old stones quickly and silently. “Jon, dances and songs are not for me. I prefer northern ale to Dornish wine. I love archery, but I love sparring with you even more. Nothing is ever boring with you, not to me. If you wished, I would hide away here for the rest of the tourney, but we both know that is not you. You are too dutiful for your own good. And this was my idea anyway.”

“Come here,” Jon whispered, forcing his sister to twist around and face him. Her ethereal eyes were enough for him to lose his patience. One hand seized her hair while the other went to the small of Dany’s back, pulling her just a little closer. They kissed and touched one another until they could no longer breathe. _I should…We should…No, not here._

“We must find a place like this at Winterhall,” Dany said through panting breaths. Her brow rested against his own before she turned her gaze to the city and all of the lights beyond the walls of the Dragonpit. “A place where we can be alone, together. Where we can look upon the Long Lake and the town outside the castle walls. Mayhaps we could even see the Wolfswood as well as the Lonely Hills.”

“Our chambers, I hope. It gets cold in the North,” Jon mused, knowing he could not expect a terrace outside their future chambers. Perhaps the builders would construct a small balcony, but nothing more. Jon imagined a great window seat near a blazing hearth for Dany to spend hours looking out onto their lands.

“Well then, it is a good thing I will have you there to keep me warm,” Dany said in her most sensual tone of voice. Jon held her close for the rest of their night, speaking of their hopes for Winterhall until there was nothing left to say and they returned to their chambers in Maegor’s Holdfast.

**Queen Visenya Targaryen**

Visenya felt just as merry as the lords and ladies, who dove further and further into their own cups. From her seat on the dais, she clutched the same cup of Arbor gold she was handed at the beginning of the feast. The northern lords offered her ale, the Dornish pleaded for her to taste their reds, and the Essosi attempted to gift half a dozen firewines, all in honor of her daughter’s triumph. Duty demanded she keep her wits about herself, so she politely declined them all with thanks, a compliment, and her own attempt at the queenly smile Rhaenys and Daenerys had so perfected.

To begin the feast, Tormund Giantsbane raised a horn of ale to proclaim Dany a friend to the free folk and promised her children would be welcomed at Long Lake with one hundred feasts over one hundred nights. Aggo and Jhogo spoke up after the free folk and northmen brought forth endless barrels of good northern ale. The Dothraki swore Dany’s arrows could strike a man a mile away, vowed she was just as accurate on horseback, and raised their own cups to a Targaryen winning the joust. The volleys of praise only ended after her husband said a few words and ordered the food be served.

“They are gone,” Daenerys reminded her. Visenya had finished the honeyed capon, peppered green beans, pumpkin pie, black bread, and figs. While everyone else busied themselves with their drinks and songs, she studied her children’s table and the entrance to the great feast tent.

“I know,” Visenya finally admitted to herself. She wanted to be happy for her daughter, but a small piece of her heart was sad. Everything she had learned from her own mother, Visenya taught Dany and Arya. _I still remember her first bullseye with that little Dothraki bow…I wish she was here. She hardly said a thing before she was off._ “Sometimes, I forget what it feels like.”

“To be so young and in love?” asked Daenerys. Visenya nodded as she watched Rhaegar dance with Gwynesse Grafton, a fair maid with even fairer blonde hair and desirable blue eyes. They even looked a good match, Gwynesse in her red silk dress with gold Myrish lace and Rhaegar in his black doublet, but the girl would never have his heart. Arya danced with a Santagar, trying her best to keep her eyes on the young Dornishman and not her brother. _She hides it better than I did, but then again, she has always had Rhaegar. I did not have Jon, not until Qarth._ “I envy them, Dany and Jon. I would slip away and fly Drogon if I could.”

Beyond the dancefloor, Visenya spied Eddard holding court with Daemon and Benjen, surely teaching them some battlefield stratagem. Senya led Lyanna and Rhaenys away from the singers to join her in the dance. Aegon and Nymeria were nowhere to be found. _Seven hells, they cannot wait until we return to Maegor’s Holdfast?_

Beside Eddard, she found Aemon hanging on Naerys’ every word. _Our son is drunk on her, not the wine._ Across from Aemon, Valarr whispered some jest that brought a laugh out of Daenys while Brandon kissed Sansa like it was the last night they would ever spend together. Visenya smiled, seeing the eldest of her children in love with one another. She feared a great deal of effort would be required to pair them together, but each of them found their own way.

“If I had known this meant so much to you, I would have…,” said Jon, apologetic and concerned on her other shoulder.

“No, it is quite alright. Dany is no longer a little girl. She is still a child in some ways, barely, but she is old enough to make her own decisions. If things had been different when I was her age, I would have stolen you away, all for myself. I cannot blame her,” Visenya answered, deciding her daughter’s thanks would have to be enough for this day. On the morrow, they would speak of the tourney and what it felt like to be one of the champions of the King’s Tourney.

“I was a blind fool,” said Jon, trying to comfort her with his regret.

“And I was too afraid to tell you how I felt, but that is past. We are here now, together. For that, I am grateful, my love,” Visenya replied, taking her husband’s hand to let him know there was nothing to be sorry for. She wanted to kiss him then, but refrained from such a display in front of the hundreds celebrating before them. All she could do was smile back and lovingly trace her thumb over his hand before turning her gaze to their youngest children.

The princes and princesses did not sit alone at their table. Amanda Arryn and Nymella Martell surrounded Rhaella, pointing at countless boys and girls while they whispered with each other. They had become close friends with shared interests, just as Lyarra had bonded with Elys Tyrell. Before the tourney, Elys Tyrell was closest with Rhaella and Elia, but Rhaella preferred more ladylike activities and Elia preferred Maelor’s company to her cousins. With Lyarra, the eldest Tyrell girl could be herself, riding horses, loosing arrows, swinging a practice sword, or running the walls of the Red Keep.

Near the end of her children’s table, Visenya watched Alysanne and Vaella giggle with Serena Tyrell, Mara Martell, Alys Stark, and Cerelle Lannister. Her youngest twins inherited all of her features, but Visenya knew they would never share her love of archery or swordsmanship. That had once disappointed her, but Alysanne and Vaella held a certain love for books and a thirst for knowledge that could only make a mother proud.

“Is that your doing?” Jon asked when he noticed Jaime Lannister’s daughter with Alysanne and Vaella. Cerelle and Tya Lannister were always welcome around their own children, but Jon nor Visenya were blind to the fact that the Lannister sisters retreated to their friends from the Westerlands at feast.

“Rhaenys’,” Visenya said as she then watched Ashara and Viserra abandon their lemon cakes to join Rhae and Lya on the dancefloor. The four of them looked splendid in their dresses, Rhae and Lya preferring the fashion of the Crownlands to their sisters’ Dornish silks. “Do you want me to speak with Sansa and Arya?”

“They are just children. I do not think we should make more of it than it is. Look at them. They seem to be getting along and besides, they are just little girls,” Jon answered, oblivious to the truth of things.

“Little girls can be mean and hold poisonous little tongues,” Daenerys warned their husband. Daenerys’ comment stirred memories of their Lya being told she was not a Targaryen because she lacked the silver hair of Old Valyria. _The sweetest ones suffer the worst of them._

“Jeyne, Argella, Mara…they are sweet little girls, not even ten years old,” Jon defended their nieces. Visenya glared at him for forgetting the cruelties of children.

“And they have heard nothing good of House Lannister,” Visenya countered, despite her own closely held resentment toward House Lannister. Long ago, she learned to let the hatred go, but a small piece of it still lingered in her heart. From time to time, Visenya reminded herself she could not afford to hold grudges against those who were dead. Jaime Lannister remained the Lord of Casterly Rock and the Warden of the West. His children would come after him and Visenya intended to rule a peaceful realm, without blood being spilt between Lannister, Baratheon, Arryn, or Stark.

“Forgive me. I forget not all girls are like our daughters,” Jon said with the naïve belief their own daughters could do no wrong. Visenya held her tongue, allowing her husband to cling to the belief each of their little girls were completely pure of heart. _I must remember the same for my sons, as much as I defend them when they find themselves in trouble._

“I will…make subtle suggestions to our cousins. I will be more forward with Arya and Allyria, but I must tread carefully with Margaery and Sansa. As for Arianne, well, best I leave that to Rhaenys,” Visenya decided before raising an eyebrow at Robb and Maekar. Her sons thought they were clever, stealing two untouched horns of ale. Their mischievous grins fell from their faces when they saw they had been discovered.

“Pardon me, your Grace. Lady Missandei…,” said Ser Simon Sunglass. Behind the knight stood Grey Worm’s page, an orphan boy from the Summer Isles who was discovered sleeping beneath the wharves some nights, behind the makeshift hovels along the Blackwater Rush on the others.

“Yes, I will speak with her and the others,” Visenya interrupted the Kingsguard. Jon and Daenerys silently asked if they were needed as she rose from her seat. Visenya shook her head, knowing only one monarch was needed for this matter.

From the dais, Visenya followed Ser Simon and Grey Worm’s page along the high table, past the dancefloor, and out into fresh air of the camp. Silver padded after her in their march past the line of Unsullied posted every ten paces outside the great feast tent. There were Targaryen household guards and gold cloaks as well, patrolling the nearest tents. Visenya did not see any knights, squires, or men-at-arms walking about. The important ones filled the other enormous feast tents. As for the unimportant ones, they were huddled around the camp’s hundred campfires or singing songs in an alehouse within the city walls or visiting a brothel on the Street of Silk.

Missandei and Grey Worm waited near the empty wheelhouses that sat ready to return them all to the Red Keep. Ser Jorah Mormont stood with them, telling Rakharo and Daario Naharis of their decision regarding the Lhazareen. Neither looked pleased, as she expected. Rakharo was a kind man, but he was Dothraki and her bloodrider. And Daario Naharis was a sellsword, ruthless and without mercy. _They would conquer the Lhazareen if we gave them leave._

Visenya was just as hesitant as Jon to expand the borders of the Realm. Their rule of Westeros was secure, despite the threat of war with House Hightower and the Faith Militant. Essos was more of the same, with many of their enemies killed or left poor after their conquests. Qarth proved difficult to rule effectively due to the thousands of miles that stood between it and King’s Landing. Visenya was apprehensive to claim more faraway lands that did nothing to strengthen the Realm. Worse, accepting the Lhazareen into their kingdom risked threatening the empires and kingdoms to the east.

Daenerys argued for the inclusion of Lhazar to secure their pastures and croplands to feed the Bay of Dragons, should blight curse the bay’s crops. Rhaenys echoed a similar sentiment, but Visenya knew her sister only wanted to take the last remaining lands west of the Bone Mountains.

After several moons spent debating the matter, Visenya’s reluctance vanished when Daenerys and Rhaenys echoed Ser Jorah’s sentiment. The YiTish posed the greatest threat to their eastern borders and there stood only one path for invasion, Lhazar. Lord Monford Velaryon learned from his journey, the eastern kingdoms and empires lacked the naval strength to break House Targaryen’s hold of the Straits of Qarth. The Red Waste was impassable for any army of size, unless they wished to die. Jorah swore if the YiTish ever invaded, their armies would travel by way of the trade roads through the Bone Mountains. From there, they would establish a foothold in Lhazar, where the Dothraki hordes do not ride, where the people are weak.

“Your Grace,” they all echoed one another when they saw her approach. Rakharo hid his own displeasure well in contrast to the Archon of Meereen.

“You do not agree with this decision?” asked Visenya, pointedly at Daario Naharis. _He is likely displeased I am here and Daenerys is not._

“The Lhazareen make for poor warriors. They are weak. Why protect them? Why waste coin arming and protecting small men who cannot hold a spear and shield?” Daario replied.

“Khaleesi, Daario Naharis is not wrong. Lamb Men are weak, it is known. The khalasar looks down upon these men,” Rakharo spoke truthfully with some hesitance.

“Aye, they are weak and they are poor, but I want their lands. You surprise me, Daario. Does the Archon of Meereen not see the value of bringing Lhazar into the fold? Its lands are fertile enough and should the Bay’s crops ever fail, well then you will need them,” Visenya replied, though it did little to persuade Daario.

“I have no problem with the lands. My problem is with its people. Why not conquer them? Who are they to come to the Iron Throne with terms?” Daario asked. _The Lhazareen’s terms were modest._

“Terms are to be negotiated. In my experience, weak men, as you so call them, tend to fold. Our protection will come with a price. After you have returned to Vaes Dothrak and you have returned to Meereen, you are both to ride to Hesh, Lhazosh, and Kosrak to deliver the only terms House Targaryen will accept. The khalasar will protect the eastern border along the Bones while Meereen will take in the Lhazareen’s warriors. The city watch, the Second Sons, and the Stormcrows will train them to fight as Meereen fights. Spears, shields, the sword, all of it. When that is done, the khalasar will leave them to defend Lhazar for themselves. During this time, their taxes will be split amongst Vaes Dothrak and Meereeen, evenly,” Visenya informed them.

“And how much of that shall I send to Dragonstone?” Daario asked.

“None, until there is a proper Lhazareen army marching under the banner of House Targaryen. And there will be a proper army, is that understood?” Visenya asked. Daario was quick about hiding the smirk on his lips. Even Rakharo’s lips betrayed him.

“Yes, my Queen,” Daario offered with a small bow and a hand over his heart.

“Do not think to prolong their training. You have both proven yourselves loyal for many years. I would hate to learn you are no different than some Pentoshi magister,” she warned Daario more than Rakharo, praying neither man would succumb to the temptations of greed.

“Before you set sail, you both shall be given scrolls signed by their Graces, to be delivered to the Lhazareen. The taxes and martial terms are not negotiable. Should they choose to accept, their lands will be ruled by a council of their own. That council shall answer to Vaes Dothrak. There will be trade terms and laws that are open to negotiation,” Missandei informed Daario and Rakharo.

“They are free to keep their own gods, so long as their gods do not order them to practice slavery, rape, murder, or treason,” said Visenya, unnecessarily. From the Dothraki Sea to lands beyond the Wall, the people of the Realm were allowed to pray to their own gods, without the threat of persecution.

“And if they refuse these terms? They will be agreeable to most of it, not doubt, but living under the rule of the horse lords? They will not like that, my Queen,” Daario offered his blunt counsel.

“Lamb men fear Dothraki, it is known. They are lesser men,” Rakharo said what she had heard a thousand times from the Dothraki.

“If they refuse, leave them be. We are not beggars, desperate to have them join our kingdom,” Visenya answered, scratching Silver’s head before returning to the feast. _The Lhazareen are weak. I shall give them one last threat before we turn them into decent warriors._ “Daario, be sure to tell them, if they say no and another invades their lands, we will not protect them.” _They are not the Naathi._

“Come to bed…They are safe…Protected…Senya,” Jon whispered between kisses. Every kiss was warm and loving, but Visenya could not avert her eyes from the hallway outside the King’s Chambers. She wanted to join her King and fellow Queens in their bed, but she needed to know Jon and Dany were safe.

“A little longer,” Visenya whimpered after biting her lip to stifle her moans. Her cheeks were flush from her husband’s hand fondling a breast. When another hand fell between her legs, she fell prisoner to his pleasuring fingers.

“A little longer? Well then…,” Jon whispered into her ear before falling to his knees behind her. Visenya wondered what he was doing until the bottom of her chemise was thrown up over his head and he began kneading her cheeks. Soon enough, his careful hands were replaced by kisses. Visenya knew where this was going.

“No, stop it,” Visenya laughed, squirming away from Jon’s predatory lips. A part of her wanted to make love to him there, to thank him and worship his body as he worshipped hers. Another part of her wanted to curse him for trying to make her sob and cry out his name so close to their door and Ser Garlan Tyrell. “I know this is silly, but I want to be sure they return safely.”

“They returned to the Dragonpit. They have Dunk and Suvion and all of the dragons with them. The Unsullied will escort them here or they will use the tunnels. Why this worry? You are usually the one encouraging our children to get into mischief,” Jon whispered.

“You would laugh if I told you,” Visenya dared to say, remembering the hazy pieces of a terrible dream.

“Tell me. I will not laugh, I swear it. You are my Queen and my sister,” Jon demanded, pulling on her wrist so she could face him.

“I have had this dream…a dragon is falling from the sky. It is a dark and cloudy night without a star in the sky. The dragon, it tries and tries to use its wings, but it can’t fly. The falling never ends until there is a roar from another dragon and then I wake up,” Visenya said what she could remember. _There was more. I am sure of it, but I can’t remember. The roars almost sounded like a familiar voice, but…_

“All our dragons can fly,” Jon said, trying his best to mask his dismissive thoughts with a caring voice. _I cannot blame him. Dreams and prophecies lead to madness._

“I know, it’s just…With this coming conflict, I worry we will not be the first to strike. I worry the Faith or the Hightowers will try to hurt us, through are children, when they learn we will not bend to their will,” Visenya explained her fears while the shouts and giggles of little girls echoed outside the chambers.

“And you believe the dragon in your dream is one of our children. What was the color of its scales?” Jon asked.

“I cannot remember,” Visenya sadly admitted. _Four or five times, I have dreamed this dream and every morning, I forget._

“Our children are safe, my love. They have guards and direwolves. The oldest have their dragons. And they have us. Dany and Jon can protect themselves, you have seen to that. Nevertheless, I will leave you to it,” Jon said, cupping her face before leaving a kiss on her brow. “Return to us before morning.”

“I shouldn’t be long,” Visenya promised, greedily drinking in the sight of her naked husband before he turned and left her alone in the darkness of their solar. The sound of laughter brought her back to the door. Peering through the small opening, she glimpsed Allyria and Elia. Her youngest and most adventurous princesses were chasing after Lyarra and Elys Tyrell. To her surprise and delight, Rhaella was with them.

Visenya never concerned herself with her children staying up late into the night, but the presence of her niece and Rhaella made her curious. After smoothing away the mess Jon had done to her chemise, she pulled her door open and slipped into the hallway. Ser Garlan bared a look of concern, but the queen waved her Kingsguard off and set out toward the spiraling stairs alone.

The corridor was quiet and empty, with only Ser Garlan and Shadow at her back, protecting the King’s Chambers. Visenya carefully listened for signs of life from every passing chamber, but the only sounds were from the flickering flames of the torches and braziers. When the sound of her daughters’ laughter grew fainter, she hurried down the corridor’s cold stones and descended the stairs quicker than any queen should.

Just as she reached the floor below, Allyria and Elia dashed into Lyarra’s chambers behind their sisters. Knowing where the girls had gone, Visenya slowed her steps. In her pursuit, she spared a glance toward Rickard’s open door. Within, she spied her son and his twin sister lying on the floor with ink and parchment. Neither took notice of their mother’s presence, too preoccupied with Rhaenyra’s finishing touches to some battle scene.

Leaving Rickard and Rhaenyra to their drawings, Visenya turned to Lyarra’s room and opened the door to an empty solar. The laughter inside Lyarra’s bedchamber died with the creaking of her door. All five of them were on Lyarra’s bed, bundled underneath the comfort of soft lambswool covers well-suited for a cool summer night.

“Mother,” Rhaella was the first to acknowledge her presence.

“It is late and there are still three days left for this tourney. You are still expected to ride out with us at first light,” she reminded her daughters. Rhaella nodded her head dutifully, but she was the only one. Lyarra, Elia, and Allyria rolled their eyes, as if to tell her she was becoming an overbearing mother. _If they continue to run about this castle at these hours, they will not make it to the final feast._ “Elys, does your father and mother know where you are?”

“Yes, Aunt Visenya. Please don’t send me away! Please!” Elys pleaded with her innocent, dark violet eyes. It was a clever trick that reminded her of Elys’ mother.

“I had no intention of sending you away. Do you know, when I was your age, I would sneak off to your mother’s room?” she asked and her niece only shook her head. “Your mother and I are more like sisters than cousins. That is why I named Allyria so.”

“Did you stay there?” Elia asked, pulling her cover a little closer to her chin. Visenya sat at edge of Lyarra’s bed and pulled on Elia’s cover so her feet would stay warm from the chill of the summer night winds.

“Every night. Well, we took turns every night going to different rooms. There was your mother,” Visenya said, nodding to Elys. “And there was my sister, Rhaenys, and my other sister, or aunt if you wish to be proper about it, Daenerys.”

“Don’t forget yourself,” Allyria added.

“Yes, and myself. We explored the Red Keep, its secret halls and stairways, its hidden tunnels and corridors. Sometimes we would visit the dragon skulls in the dungeons and other times, we would walk the ramparts, feeding the seagulls. Once or twice we played pranks on the king or my brother Egg. And at the end of most nights, we would find ourselves in one of our beds, telling each other our secrets and stories until we fell asleep,” Visenya told her daughters and Elys Tyrell of her childhood. _But I did not tell them every secret. I did not tell them I loved Jon._

“We tell each other secrets,” Allyria admitted.

“Which ones?” Visenya asked.

“They would not be secrets if we told you,” Lyarra answered with a devious smile.

“Clever girl,” Visenya complimented her daughter before brushing a few loose strands of hair from her face. Staring at Lyarra, Visenya felt like she was staring into a looking glass, if only she had inherited her mother’s Stark grey eyes and raven hair. “Have any of you taken a liking to any of the boys? There are so many handsome young lordlings at tourney.”

“Amanda likes Daeron,” Allyria blurted out before realizing what she had said. Rhaella instantly turned over at the end of the bed, refusing to face anyone, visibly angered by the notion of Amanda Arryn having any interest in her twin brother.

“That was a secret,” Elia reminded Allyria. Lyarra and Elys shared disapproving looks with one another but refrained from admonishing the youngest of their group.

“I’m sorry,” Allyria said in a regretful, shaky voice.

“It is alright, my sweetling. There is nothing to forgive. Your secret is safe with me,” Visenya promised before leaving a small peck on each of the girls’ brows. None of them were pleased by that. These were her fiercest daughters and a goodnight kiss from their mother was something for little princesses who preferred court to rides through the Kingswood. Elys Tyrell pretended not to be bothered by the affection, but she fit in with the rest of Visenya’s daughters.

“Do not lose any sleep over your cousin. She is just one of many girls who will take a liking to Daeron, so there is no need for this rage. Remember, he is your brother and he would do anything for you. He may be a bull-headed boy obsessed with nothing more than his swords now, but one day he will see the truth. He will know who truly cares for him,” she whispered softly enough so only Rhaella could hear, even through her sniffles. Visenya decided not to state the obvious, that Rhaella wanted Daeron for herself. She could not predict how her little princess would react, so Visenya said what she thought Rhaella needed to hear.

Visenya waited for Rhaella to say anything, but the princess kept her face buried in her pillow, underneath the covers. _Better I say nothing more. Her sisters can do more for her than I can._ Before whisking herself away, the queen peeled away an inch of Rhaella’s plush cover and kissed her silver hair.

All of Visenya’s thoughts focused on Rhaella’s secret jealously and love. Almost aimlessly, she retraced her steps down the children’s corridor pondering her daughter’s feelings. Her eldest were forgotten until she stumbled into Suvion and Dunk padding up the spiraling stone steps. As soon as she laid eyes on Jon and Dany, she wrapped her prince and princess in a mother’s loving hug.

“What was that for?” Jon asked. Her son’s brow was furrowed with confusion.

“Can a mother not hug her son and daughter? I am just glad to see you both,” Visenya explained herself. _I am glad to see you well, healthy and unharmed from our enemies._ “And you, how does it feel to be champion?”

“It feels good, I guess. Arya’s advice helped,” Dany answered with a certain humbleness as they followed the direwolves up the winding stairs.

“We have two champions now. You cannot know how proud I am of you,” said Visenya.

“I know,” Dany swore when they reached their floor. This time, Dany graced her with the hug. “Thank you, Mother, for teaching me everything. You did not have to. There are more important things that you need to see to in the mornings, but you always…”

“Nothing is more important and I think you understand that. A queen has her burdens and responsibilities to the Realm, yes, but I am a mother first. No matter how many of our people call me Mhysa, they are not my blood. One day, you will both rule your own castle and that burden will weigh on your shoulders, but I know you. You will always find the time to do whatever you must for your own children. There are certain things that cannot be left to a septon or a maester or some master-at-arms,” Visenya told her children. She recalled her own mother telling her something similar before she rode north for Winterfell many years ago.

“I understand,” Dany said before coming to Jon’s chambers.

“Dany…,” Visenya thought to caution her daughter, but thought otherwise when she looked upon her son’s face. _No, I will trust them. Jon will wait another year or half. It is in him, to be too honorable._

“What is it?” Dany asked as she leaned her head against Jon’s shoulder.

“Nothing,” she assured her daughter with a comforting hand on her shoulder. “I shall see you both on the morrow, so do find some sleep for yourselves. I did not mind your absence at the feast held in your honor, but your presence is expected on the morrow. You both shall be seated with us at the final melee. The smallfolk will want to see their favorite princess again.”

“That honor belongs to Arya,” Dany disagreed.

“The honor belongs to the princess who has done them the latest act of kindness,” she assured her daughter. Before turning in, Visenya continued, “Remember, I expect to see you both with your sisters and brothers, ready and presentable at first light. Try and wear some red, both of you, or else they will say we are sending you both to the Wall.”

Her children made their promises and Visenya returned to her own chambers, fully expecting to see Jon and Dany dressed in black on the morrow. _They have too much of their father in them_ , she would always say to herself.

In passing, Ser Garlan treated her with a proper bow of the head and Shadow graced her knuckles with a quick lick from his tongue. Within the grand solar of her chambers, Visenya wove her way through the direwolves half-asleep on the Myrish rugs. Silver almost stood on her paws, but returned to her slumber when she realized nothing was amiss.

Before she reached her bedchamber, Visenya heard her sister curse in High Valyrian, sobbing their husband’s name. Almost as if his fingers never left her clit, she was wet again. This time, she did not wish to wait. Visenya had her chemise pulled over her shoulders halfway to her bed. Naked as her first nameday, she entered her bedchamber to find Jon’s tongue diving into Rhaenys’ folds, savoring the taste of her juices.

Daenerys whimpered underneath Rhaenys when Jon leaned a few inches lower to taste her sweet cunt. Her sister tried to silence Daenerys with passionate, lustful kisses, but Visenya knew her efforts were for naught. Jon was too talented a lover for Rhaenys to stifle any of their pleasure.

Visenya silently crept behind Jon and waited until his efforts came to their end. Daenerys and Rhaenys’ limbs were a tangled mess, limp and entwined together. She felt jealous seeing her fellow queens basking in the pleasure their king brought them. When Jon finally lifted his head for air, Visenya playfully slapped his face. He rose to his feet and turned with lustful, preying eyes.

“You did not wait for me,” she scorned him as best she could without laughing. Her eyes waged a war against themselves, unable to decide whether they wanted to get lost in the grey storms raging in his orbs or to admire the glory of his long, hard cock.

“No,” was all he said before she was off her feet, pinned against the wall behind her. Visenya was a prisoner to her own needs and immediately wrapped her legs around her brother’s waist. Hastily, she started thrusting into his hips before his cock ever had a chance to touch her folds. Her impatience made them laugh together, but the laughter lasted only a few sparing moments. His lips and tongue fought her own.

“Make love to me. Hurry, Jon. Hurry. Oh, my King. My…My love. Brother!” Visenya whimpered in High Valyrian with her arms entwined over his shoulders and his length piercing her tight folds. The first and second thrusts were everything she needed. The third and all the others after silenced her or pushed her to madness, screaming High Valyrian, she could not tell.

Pinned against their wall, Visenya reveled in her own ecstasy, brought on by Jon’s powerful, purposeful thrusts. Again, and again, he hit her in all the right places while his hands held her ass. Occasionally, he would fist a handful of her hair as she did with his. Once or twice, his lips abandoned her own to take her bouncing breasts into his mouth. His suckles and bites were soft, but hurt just enough that it seemed perfect.

All of it came to its eventual end with his warm seed filling her womb. Her own limbs went limp in the aftermath of his final thrusts. Visenya was grateful Jon had lost none of his skill, endurance, or his unquenchable thirst for herself, Rhaenys, and Daenerys. She wanted to thank him, but she lost her tongue in her fatigued state. _I should thank the builders of Maegor’s Holdfast as well. These walls are strong._

At Rhaenys and Daenerys’ beckoning, Jon carried Visenya from the wall to the comfort of their featherbed. Still resting her brow against his, she peppered his lips with sweet, tired kisses until they fell onto the fresh silk sheets. Burdened by fatigue and her own selfishness, Visenya stayed on top of her husband while her fellow queens nuzzled into his sides. All of them were covered in sheens of sweat from their passions.

Visenya could feel her eyes growing heavy with every passing moment. Knowing she could not stay awake much longer, she moved down to kiss the scar on Jon’s chest as she did every night. After her kiss, she listened to his heartbeat and settled in for the night. Each of them basked in the peaceful silence until they were fast asleep in each other’s warmth.

**Lady Allyria Tyrell**

“Serena! Do not swim so far from the shore!” Allyria shouted from the comfort of the _River Dragon._

“I won’t! I promise!” Serena shouted back her broken promises. Allyria could only watch as her daughter swam further and further away, leading her Dornish cousins with her.

Serena was a more than capable swimmer, especially for a girl of nine years. Like her sister, Serena was raised on the Mander and learned to swim the river from her father. Allyria felt happy to see her daughter swimming the very river she learned to swim.

After seven days of tourney, Allyria was tired of jousts and melees, as was her youngest daughter. Seeing no need to attend the final melee, she sought a place of familiar refuge, the Blackwater Rush. Her only intent was to walk the riverbank and watch her daughter swim, but when Rhaenys heard of her plans, she was bestowed House Targaryen’s river galley.

The _River Dragon_ ’s captain had sailed them as far as needed, reaching the small island Allyria remembered from her own childhood. Almost one hundred yards off the northern shore where the river still ran wide, the galley gently went aground and the men tied them off at the nearest trees. Serena, Nymella, and Mara were out of their dresses and into the water before Allyria could tell them otherwise.

“Mi’lady. Princess Arianne,” one of the serving girls emerged from below deck with the Dornish red Arianne Martell has asked for.

“That will be all, leave the flagon,” Arianne dismissed the serving girl after the cups of wine were laid on the table between. Underneath the shade of a silk roof, Allyria sipped on the wine from Godsgrace and relaxed upon her pillows. “You know these waters. Should I be concerned?”

“No, the waters are rather calm here, but I prefer to have my eyes on her,” Allyria explained, neither fearful for Serena or the Martell girls. Mara and Nymella had proven themselves proper swimmers in their ow right during their stay at Highgarden. Arianne told her they learned to swim in the Summer Sea, braving the morning and evening tides at Sunspear. The three Tyrell guards watching the girls from riverbank also assuaged her concern.

“Nymella was asking for Elys,” Arianne noted as they observed their daughters splashing one another.

“She would never miss the final melee,” Allyria replied, knowing her daughter’s interests too well. _If it wasn’t the melee, she would be off riding or hunting or picking up a spare practice sword in the yard or whatever trouble Lyarra could find for them._ “Tell me, have you spoken with Edric, in regards to our proposal?”

“I have,” said Arianne, turning her brown eyes from the children to Allyria. Her friend sipped on her wine, before cutting through the anticipation, “And he agrees…They will make a fine match. My son would be honored to have a beautiful bride from a great House. And it will certainly help put an end to the enmities between the Reach and Dorne.”

“Thank you, Ari. Willas will be glad to hear of it,” Allyria swore. Their own marriage was the first step in solidifying the bonds between Houses Tyrell and Martell, but Allyria was only a friend to House Martell and Edric was only her cousin, wed to the Princess of Dorne. Jon Dayne was the son of a Dornish princess and Elys was the daughter of the Lord of Highgarden. Their marriage would ensure more decades of peace, spare the odd troublesome lord.

“Will it bother Elys? They are second cousins,” Arianne inquired with a genuine look of concern.

“My daughter thinks the world of Nymeria and Dany and Arya. She almost worships the very ground they walk, so no, I do not think wedding her second cousin will frighten her. Even if it did bother her a little, she loves Starfall and she certainly shares Jon’s fondness for swords and hunting and riding,” said Allyria, remembering how well her daughter got on with Jon Dayne at Highgarden and along the journey up the Roseroad.

“To the Lady of Starfall, Elys Dayne,” Arianne raised her cup to toast to their betrothal. Allyria did the same and silently prayed she had done the right thing for her daughter as she drank her wine. _We still have three more to betroth…My Arthur to some Reach girl. Serena to some great, handsome lord. Rodrik to a girl who will be content without a castle._ “Should we tell them?”

“No, not now. I think it is best we wait until they are of a…certain age. When Jon is tall and strong and handsome. Elys sees him as her little cousin. They are still too young, would you not agree? I can say Elys would not take the news of betrothal well, but that is only because of her age. She has vowed to never marry before, but that will pass. As my brothers and sisters tell it, my sister Arya was far worse and we see how that turned out,” Allyria told Arianne, praying she did not say too much to dissolve the betrothal.

“Then we shall wait until they are of age. I will be sure to keep my son away from the harlots at the Water Gardens until then,” Arianne promised with a knowing smirk. Arianne had given her maidenhead to Daemon Sand after she noticed his lustful looks at the Water Gardens, she had once told Allyria.

“And I swear to keep the lordlings coming in and out of Highgarden from Elys,” promised Allyria, though she suspected she would never need intervene. Elys was still young, but Allyria considered herself a good judge of her own daughter’s character and predilections. _She will only take her betrothed into bed._

“I suspect a great many lords across the Reach will curse me for stealing away the beauty of Highgarden. Be sure to remind them of Serena,” Arianne jested before emptying her cup. “While we are speaking of betrothals, have you spoken with Rhaenys?”

“She warned me. They plan to tell them at the melee, yes? A part of me wishes we were there to see the look on Baelor Hightower’s face,” Allyria laughed, imagining the old knight’s face reddening with rageful pride. _It is too bad Lord Leyton is not so impulsive. One rash move, we could have his head off and be done with this._

“Does Willas intend to call his banners? At least a small host at Highgarden?” Arianne asked.

“Would that he could, the Hightowers would know. Word travels fast down the Roseroad. The Starry Sept has its many spies and it is impossible to keep every poor man from riding south to collect a gold dragon,” Allyria said. She had asked Willas before and he told her what she suspected. Any host, large or small, gathered at Highgarden would be known to Oldtown. “I know my uncle is marshalling an army in the mountains.”

“A rather small army. One that can stay unnoticed and move quickly on Oldtown when the war begins,” Arianne said, darkly and assuredly.

“It will take more than ten thousand men to besiege the walls of Oldtown,” Allyria reminded Arianne who seemed surprisingly unconcerned.

“I should expect the sight of dragons over the city will open at least one of the gates. Some of the men protecting those walls have seen what they can do. Once inside the city, ten thousand men should be plenty. And I do not expect them to march on the city alone,” said Arianne.

“No, they will not,” Allyria added, knowing Willas would call his banners and join his closest forces to her uncle’s host.

“Mother! Are you going to swim?” Serena yelled. Allyria twisted upon her pillows to find her daughter and the Dornish princesses wading through the water, closer and closer to the galley’s starboard side.

“Another day,” Allyria lied, breaking her promise. She loved swimming the Mander and held her own fond memories of the Blackwater Rush, but she was content to watch her daughter enjoy the cool waters.

“You promised to show me the big rock,” Serena reminded her. A sense of guilt swelled in her heart, knowing she told her daughter they would swim to a great rock that jutted out from the island’s riverbank another two hundred yards upriver. _I will make it up to her with another dress or necklace._ Before she could bribe her daughter with the promise of a gift, a splash of water spilled onto her dress.

“Serena!” Allyria meant to scold her daughter further as she rose from her seat until Mara and Nymella did the same to Arianne. Allyria remembered splashing her own mother, as well as Lyanna Stark and Elia Martell many years ago. It always started with Rhaenys or Egg and eventually ended with one of them splashing King Rhaegar.

“Why not?” Arianne suggested, rising from her own pillows. Her sun-orange Dornish dress clung to her large breasts, leaving nothing to the imagination. Allyria nodded in agreement and followed her friend along the midships to the stairs.

From the stern, Allyria could tell the river was deep enough for one to dive off the galley. Arianne did not care if the men aboard were staring as she slipped out of her thin Dornish dress. As it pooled around the princess’s feet, Allyria looked around to ensure none of the ship’s crew nor her own guard could see her. Those within sight averted their eyes and Allyria quickly discarded her clothes until she was as naked as her first nameday.

“You first,” Arianne said, nodding toward the river. Allyria could not blame her for mistrusting the dark green and blue waters of the Blackwater Rush.

Allyria knew this place and these waters. Without fear, she climbed over the ledge and dove into the refreshing water. The touch of the river on her skin was a welcome delight for the it was summer and there wasn’t a cloud in the sky. Underneath the surface, everything seemed peaceful and easy. She remained submerged until Arianne followed her in, disturbing the silence.

When she emerged from the surface, Allyria gasped for air and ran her fingers through her wet hair. Spinning in a continuous circle, she took in the beauty surrounding her. The fish swam through the river unseen, but the birds flew from tree to tree and riverbank to riverbank. A falcon sat perched on the highest branch of the tallest tree she could find, two crows nibbled at was surely a dead fish washed upon the northern bank, and a pelican stole a fish from the river one hundred yards downriver. She did not see any foxes or deer, but Allyria was sure there were some within the trees standing tall and green along the riverbanks.

“Look, a turtle!” Mara pointed to the small creature wading its way from shore to shore only a few yards away.

“Come, follow me. I know a place where you will see dozens of turtles,” Allyria beckoned Arianne and the girls to follow her upriver to the rock she had promised to show Serena.

Already tired from her swim in the Blackwater Rush, Allyria’s body was utterly spent after Willas made love to her in their guest chambers. Every aching muscle in her body told her to stay in her bed and fall asleep. Allyria wanted rest and sweet dreams, but the sheen of sweat covering her skin compelled her to find her strength and escape Willas’ protective arms.

At Highgarden, she always found the terrace outside her bedchamber pleasant after fucking her husband. The winds were always cool and the starry skies above never failed to awe. When she did not count the stars and search for her favorite ones, she gazed upon the lands surrounding her family’s castle and the groves, gardens, and godswood within. From her balcony in the Red Keep, she found no groves or gardens below, nor the fields, woodlands, or hills of the Reach, but she did have the sea. The moon’s reflection off the Blackwater was certainly something to behold while she allowed the winds to cool her skin. _I still miss this place. A part of it is still home._

“I cannot give you the sea,” Willas said after coming to her, still collecting his breath. She gladly leaned back into his embrace after his curious hands roamed her breasts and ass like he had never touched them before. Allyria even delighted in her attempt to harden his member, wiggling her hips until she felt it pressing against her cheeks.

“The Mander will suffice,” Allyria said lovingly. _I would not trade Highgarden for the Red Keep. Highgarden is Willas and Arthur, Elys and Serena, and Rodrik._ “I did not ask, your grandfather, how did he take it?”

“Well, but that means little. His schemes are foolish, no doubt, but he knows how to present himself at court. He suspected it, I think. My uncle, on other hand, well, you can presume how he reacted,” Willas said, putting an end to the small kisses he left on her neck.

“I did not miss the fury in his eyes,” Allyria remembered the knight glaring at the dais and the table full of Targaryen princes and princesses. She even heard him mutter a few curses under his breath until his ladywife urged him to stop.

“A stratagem. My uncle was not always like this. You have seen him this way before, but at court, no, he is playing the game,” Willas said, knowing his blood better than she. _He wanted the Targaryens to see his anger…Why? What is their next move? It cannot be open war and they will not let House Targaryen march through Oldtown slaughtering the Faith Militant. Leyton wants them to think this is his final move?_ “Nobody dares to say it, but war is inevitable. We must be ready for what comes after.”

“My dear husband, I know I haven’t led any armies or fought in any battles, but I do know you must fight the war first,” Allyria teased her husband.

“This war will end almost before it begins. My grandfather mistakes Jon’s mercies and kindnesses toward the smallfolk for weakness. He thinks the smallfolk who support the Faith will protect him. He is a fool. His septons and septas have taken it too far, calling for the princes and princesses’ heads on spikes. When the dust has settled, we must do what is best for our House, do you not agree?” Willas asked, forcing Allyria to turn on her heels. For a moment, she felt cold without his arms around her and only the hard stone of the balustrade resting against her back. Allyria returned to Willas’ warmth, pressing her breasts against his hard muscles while her hands soothed his sculpted back.

“What is best for our House…,” Allyria repeated his words, afraid to know what he meant by that. She hated the games played by high lords and some ladies, but she could not lie to herself. _I am one of them. I am in this game, whether I like it or not._ “What is best for our House?”

“Oldtown and its incomes. If House Hightower doesn’t go the way of the Boltons or Freys, at the very least they will not keep all of their incomes. A good amount will go to House Targaryen I would presume. Some will go to Lord Paxter, it is what I would do. His ships will be needed to protect the harbor if my grandfather’s fleet is destroyed. The surrounding lands may go to Beesbury, Bulwer, and Costayne. You and I must remind their Graces of Highgarden’s strength. We must remind them of our loyalty and that it is House Tyrell who holds the Reach together,” Willas said, even if he knew as well as she did, they could not control House Hightower.

“Jon is like a brother to me. Daenerys, Visenya, and Rhaenys were my sisters before Sansa and Arya. They know we are loyal. They will remember,” Allyria assured her lord husband, cupping his cheek as she looked up at his blue eyes.

“We must also take precautions when we return home. I trust our guards, but outside the castle walls, we must be careful. When the fighting is over, there will still be some Faith Militant who survive. They will seek vengeance where they can find it,” Willas warned her.

“More guards when we go riding then,” Allyria complained, though it was a small sacrifice she was willing to make for her family’s safety. _I would travel with an army if it was needed to protect the children._ “I will go to the godswood on the morrow and pray none of this comes to pass, though I fear my prayers will not be answered. You think I am being foolish?”

“No, you just surprise, that is all. You did not pray to any gods when we first met, not until Winterfell. I think there is more of the North in you than you believe,” Willas said with a smirk on his lips. She could not tell him he was wrong. Visenya had always invited her to join her prayers in the godswood when they were children. Allyria accompanied her cousin occasionally, but she said no prayers. Usually, she just sat underneath the trees, admiring the flowers. At Winterfell, she learned her prayers could be answered.

“The old gods protected you. They protected my family, or at least that is what I like to believe,” Allyria admitted, remembering they did not protect her father, nor Aegon and King Rhaegar.

“Keep hold of that belief. We must all believe in something,” Willas told her before raising her hand to his lips. The gentlest kiss graced her skin, reminding her how fortunate she was to marry for love. _I pray I have not made a mistake with Elys. May the gods forgive me if I am wrong, for she will not._

“And what do you believe in, my dear lord husband?” she asked, inching closer and closer to his lips. Willas pretended to be a devout worshipper of the Seven for the sake of the Reach, but Allyria knew better and Willas’ bannermen certainly knew better, for he was the first of Lord of Highgarden to wed without a septon present in hundreds of years.

“I believe in you,” Willas whispered against her lips. The kiss was slow, but sweet and an embodiment of their love, or so she thought. Allyria felt a bit foolish and naïve with her fluttering heart, but she believed her husband’s words. They never spoke lies or half-truths with one another. _He believes in me as I believe in him. How could we not, after all these years?_

“Come,” Willas beckoned after their affections and Allyria followed. Into their bedchamber, she joined him underneath the comfortable sheets in their bed and let her eyes fall to shut away the candlelight that remained. She twisted and nuzzled and twisted her way again until she laid as she always did, comfortably in her husband’s embrace.

**Dowager Queen Rhaella Targaryen**

Queen Rhaella had seen enough melees in her time. The final melee of the King’s Tourney entertained the masses and delighted the northerners, but she thought it a rather dull affair. She saw it as a chance for the young and naively brave to lavish themselves in undeserved praise and glory. _Fools, all of them. At least there is no mistaking the joust or archery for war._

Despite her feelings toward the melees, Rhaella was glad to oversee the melee soon to unfold before her. Her youngest and perhaps fiercest granddaughter had pulled her from the great feast tent, promising a surprise. The little princess had insisted Lord Monford come with and so he did, escorting them safely from the feast through the tourney grounds.

Outside the royal tent, Rhaella found her youngest grandchildren preparing themselves for battle. Between two great braziers sat chairs fit for a king and queen, or so the children pretended. Allyria named them king and queen and commanded they oversee the great melee.

“Lord Grandfather, you must give the order!” Prince Robb yelled across the melee ground that lay between the royal tent and the great jousting arena. The braziers and torches lining the arena provided enough light for Rhaella to ensure none of her grandsons became too rough with their practice swords.

“He is not Lord Grandfather now. He is the king,” Maekar reminded his brother. Rhaella chuckled, seeing her silver haired princes firmly gripping their swords with all their strength. Like every boy who left the melee, her grandsons were inspired to march off to war and fight a dozen great battles.

Rhaella took her measure of the field, seeing Jaehaerys standing tall to her left, between Robb and Maekar. She quickly decided he would be one of the last standing if he cared as much as his brothers, for he reminded her of the day’s champion, Barth Burley. Like the northerner from the mountain clans, Jaehaerys was taller, faster, and stronger than the rest of the field.

When she glanced over to her right, she spotted Lyarra whispering a plan of attack to Elys Tyrell. It was obvious the girls were plotting to remove Jaehaerys from the battle. Further down their line, Daeron seemed to make an alliance with Brynden Stark while Orrys Baratheon and Jon Dayne took up swords with Torrhen.

“Well then your king commands this melee commence at once!” Monford answered Robb’s plea and waved his hand. As soon as he did, the children went running after one another with wooden swords raised. Poor Roland Arryn tripped over his own boots, but Maelor and Elia helped him up before he fell victim to Desmond Tully’s charge.

“Remember, any injuries and the guilty will be thrown in the Black Cells!” Rhaella threatened the children as she did when Allyria dragged her to the melee. She did not intend to see any broken bones or chipped teeth or worse. “Daeron, this isn’t the training yard!” she yelled after seeing her grandson’s blinding strikes at Robb’s sword. To her relief, the prince heard her call and remembered this was just a game.

“Laenor, your shield! Higher! Raise your shield, boy!” Monford bellowed to one of his grandsons. Laenor was just one of the many Velaryons embroiled in the melee, fighting alongside three boys from House Celtigar. Rhaella watched them give it their best without trying to hurt someone, but Daeron overwhelmed them with Brynden Stark’s aid.

“The raven scroll, who was it meant for?” she asked her husband as the melee ensued. She judged no one noticed, but Rhaella did not miss her husband carefully handing a small piece of parchment, sealed with sea green wax, to Corlys Velaryon.

“Aurane,” Monford whispered, careful even around the children and the Unsullied at their backs.

“So it begins. How many ships will he take with him?” Rhaella asked, knowing Aurane Velaryon was anchored with his own fleet at Estermont. After feasting in the halls of Greenstone for a fortnight, they were meant to sail through the Stepstones, biding their time. Now it seemed they would sail directly for Planky Town to take on provisions and men from Sunspear and Lemonwood.

“Fifty. Any more and Oldtown will hear of it,” he said, reminding her just how large the Targaryen and Velaryon fleets had become. Before Jon’s reign, a fleet of fifty ships was something one took note of, but now it was commonplace to see patrols of fifty or more war galleys sailing up and down the Narrow Sea.

“You sound frustrated,” said Rhaella, noticing the grimace on her husband’s face. “What is it? Do not lie to me.”

“Another war to be fought and won at sea by my brother. Again, I find myself in the wrong place at the wrong time,” Monford grumbled as they watched Elys and Lyarra surrounding Jaehaerys. The prince put up a half-hearted defense until Elys knocked away his sword and Lyarra sent him tumbling to the ground, falling on top of him.

“Here, with me?” Rhaella replied.

“That is not what I meant,” her lord husband said, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“You are the Master of Ships, not your brother. If it is glory you seek, we are too old for that, wouldn’t you agree? And what glories will there be had at sea? A minor skirmish with the Hightower fleet, if they are even brave enough to set sail? A battle with a few Ironborn longships, real or not? You will be remembered for building the greatest navy this world has ever seen. You will be remembered for returning your House to its former station. Has there ever been a greater Lord of Driftmark? There isn’t one I can recall,” Rhaella did her best to raise Monford’s spirits.

“You are right,” he admitted with only a small bit of pain still laced in his voice. _You fools and your pride._ Rhaella held her tongue and squeezed her husband’s hand as they watched the fighters fall one by one. In the end, Allyria was the last one standing with her foot on Daeron’s chest. The prince did his best to play a corpse, but he failed to withhold his laughter as Allyria chanted her cries of victory.

“Daemon! Benjen!” Rhaella beckoned her grandsons to her side when she caught them attempting to walk by unnoticed. The twins froze in their steps with guilt ridden faces. Neither dared refuse her. “Where are you off to? Or is the better question, where have you been? Never mind, do not answer. Better I not know. Benjen, the Toland girl has a certain fondness for you. You should smile more when you dance with her. Honorable princes do their best to make a lady feel wanted.”

“Your grandmother is right about that,” Monford backed her counsel.

“And you, Daemon, you should practice your steps. I saw you dancing all over poor Agnes Shett’s little feet. A prince of House Targaryen should not look so clumsy,” Rhaella said pointedly so he would remember. _I pray they are listening to me and not plotting their next act of mischief._

“I don’t even like Leona,” Benjen complained. _Why not? The girl is pretty and kind._

“And I hate dancing,” Daemon added without sharing his brother’s sentiment toward his own dancing partner.

“We all have our duties. Some we find more unpleasant than others, but these are also matters of courtesy. I am warning you now before your mothers give you a proper scolding. At least try to look apologetic when they do come for you and be sure not to fail us for the rest of the tourney,” Rhaella warned her grandsons.

“Yes, Grandmother,” the princes echoed each other. Brandon nodded his head with his trustworthy grey eyes telling her he meant his word. Daemon, on the other hand, lied with his mischievous violet eyes.

“I should think there are extra swords, if you wish to partake in the next melee,” Rhaella suggested, nodding toward the children readying for another half-hearted fight.

“That is for children,” Daemon spat, as if she had done him some great insult.

“You are still children, my princes,” Rhaella said kindly before rising to her feet. She pulled both her grandsons in for a hug and kissed their raven-curled heads, knowing that was always the way to disarm them. “Do not let me keep you any longer. Just promise me, no fires. And I do not wish to hear of you two making any more trouble between the Brackens and Blackwoods. That fire needs no more stoking. Do not worry, your father has not heard of your…misdeeds. Lucky for you, your grandmother has spoken with that quarrelsome lot and your parents shall never hear of it. Now go, off with you.”

“If Jonos Bracken was not the prickly sort, I would have half a mind to knight Benjen and Daemon,” Monford jested as soon as the boys were gone. Her husband started laughing to himself, too amused with the boyish antics of Daemon and Benjen. _He laughs because he has never had to intervene in this never-ending feud._ “I would have paid them a hundred gold dragons to tell me beforehand. To see Osgood Bracken’s face…”

“Yes, quite amusing,” she said before returning her gaze to the second melee. Much like the first, Jaehaerys succumbed to wounds from Lyarra and Elys Tyrell while Daeron and Brynden Stark cut their way through the field. Allyria tried her best, swinging and feinting, until Torrhen snuck up to strike her down. Maelor and Elia were two peas in a pod, as ever, putting down their opposition until they allowed Roland Arryn to take out their legs. In the end, Robb and Maekar were left standing, refusing the younger ones their victory.

Rhaella thought to tell the princes to allow their cousins a triumph, but a flash of white fur accompanied by two little princesses made her curious. _What are they doing alone? I can still hear the songs from the feast. This is not like them._ After commending Robb and Maekar for their bravery and skill, she left Monford to oversee the third melee while she gave chase to Ghost and her granddaughters.

Only a few short moments after she fled the fmelee grounds, Rhaella found herself lost in the identical rows of Unsullied tents. She did not know where Lyanna and Rhaenys were until she took one turn, then another before stumbling into their path. She gave them half a fright. Rhaenys nearly jumped and Lyanna let out half a scream. Ghost only wagged his tail and licked her hand, unflustered by her presence.

“It is unlike you two, to leave the feast so early while the bards still sing and the girls still dance,” Rhaella said, suspiciously eyeing her nervous granddaughters. “And you should not be walking the tourney grounds alone, especially at night. Your father would…”

“Ghost is with us,” Rhaenys defended herself and Lyanna, scratching direwolf behind the ears.

“Be that as it may, from the feast tent to here, you should at least have an escort. Two guards at least. You are more important than you realize, you must understand that. Now, what are you doing, sneaking about?” Rhaella inquired after the girls nodded their heads.

“We were…,” Lyanna tripped over her own twisted tongue.

“We were searching for Daemon and Benjen. Leona Toland and Agnes Shett wanted us to ask them some questions,” Rhaenys stepped in, lying for her sister. _Are all of my grandchildren going to lie to me?_ Rhaella had seen Lyanna staring daggers at the Toland girl before the dancing had begun. She knew better than to believe her granddaughter would do any kindness for the Dornish girl.

“Some questions? The questions girls ask boys they like?” she asked both princesses. The night was dark, but there was enough light from the nearest brazier for her to see Lyanna and Rhaenys’ faces go flush. “Yes? Well, I presume they have gone to one of your older brothers’ tents over there,” she continued, pointing to the edge of camp that faced the river.

Rhaella kept a watchful eye on the whispering twins until their raven manes disappeared behind one of the tents and Ghost with them. She wondered if Daemon and Benjen held the same feelings as their sisters as she walked back to the children’s melee ground. _Benjen would do anything for his sister, I think, but Daemon…Curse him if he breaks Rhaenys’ heart._

“Princess Lyarra is quite the fighter. If her skill with a bow were to match her swordsmanship, I suspect House Targaryen will see another princess win the King’s Tourney,” Monford declared before seeing her furrowed brow. “What is it?”

“Nothing, just the troubles that ail little princesses,” she whispered as she settled into her seat. Monford did not inquire further, instead raising her hand to his lips for a loving kiss.

“This is utter chaos,” Rhaella decided as the fourth melee turned into a game of chase-the-thief. Jaehaerys played the role of the thief who stole a queen’s crown well, evading capture from the little ones. He hid and ran and hid again, escaping the brave knights in pursuit. The children were everywhere but the open ground before their watchful eyes, running through the well-ordered rows of Unsullied tents.

“You call this chaos? This city will be thrown into true chaos should Rhaegar and Aegon make it to the final joust. Lord Eddison has already begun instructing his men to turn away the smallfolk before the tourney grounds are overrun. Gods only know how many drunken horse races and tavern brawls will take place should they meet. I’d wager there will be a murder or two as well,” Monford painfully reminded her of what was to come, should her grandsons dismount their remaining foes. She wanted nothing more than to see them unseat the much-heralded champions that stood in their way, but she also did not wish to see blood on the streets of King’s Landing. _I still want them to make it to the end. Does that make me a terrible queen?_ , she asked herself for the rest of the night, from the tourney grounds to her chambers inside Maegor’s Holdfast.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter has some filler, but I felt like I needed a Visenya POV interacting w/ some of her children & Jon, definitely needed to show Dany winning the archery, & show the Tyrells are scheming to take advantage of the coming conflict. Good news is, the next chapter is the final day of the tourney and it will set off everything that has been brewing between the Iron Throne and Oldtown. 
> 
> Again, please leave any questions, criticisms, POV requests, or requests for more appearances/information on specific characters you think I have left out/ignored.


	14. The Crown Prince & the Bastard Prince

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This will be a very long chapter, but be sure to read it through to the end for a cliffhanger.

**Crown Princess Arya Targaryen**

She was not supposed to be there, but she was. She should have stayed in the royal tent, sipping an Arbor gold or a Dornish red, but Arya could not resist the compulsion to wish him good fortune. When she woke, her wish of good fortune was tired and half-hearted. Rhaegar had tried to escape her bed in the dark of night and failed. Her arms always clung to his warmth and this morning was no different.

From the royal tent to the Dornish encampment within the tourney grounds, Arya rode side-saddle upon her white mare, past the throngs of smallfolk marching toward the great arena. There were so many, she judged no more than one in fifty would actually be permitted in. Most, it seemed, just wanted to walk the tourney grounds on the final day. Hundreds cheered her name, many called her champion, some sung of her beauty, and a few begged for coin. The household guards riding with her barked intimidating warnings and threats, but it was Snowstorm’s fangs and Autumn low growls that kept those who wished to get too close at bay.

Senya came with her, riding side-saddle as well. They could have been mistaken for twins, if not for Senya’s preference for a simple northern braid and her simpler, grey northern dresses. Arya understood the importance of this day and knew exactly how she wanted the people to see her, should Rhaegar win her a crown of roses. After two moons of debating herself and consulting with her handmaidens, she decided on an Astapori dress, not too dissimilar to the ones worn by the ladies of Meereen and Yunkai.

Made of white silk, her dress only accentuated her Valyrian silver hair and did more than compliment her curves. Her arms were bare and just enough of her chest and back could be seen for her clothing to be considered immodest. The skin was for Rhaegar, but the fashion of dress was for the Essosi emissaries who had travelled from across the Narrow Sea and beyond. She wanted them to know their future queen would not forget the eastern portion of the kingdom and she intended for the Westerosi to see the Seven Kingdoms were not the only part of the Realm.

“We almost did not make it,” Senya declared as they pulled on the reins of their mares. Her sister was not wrong. Besides the thousands of smallfolk from King’s Landing descending upon the tourney grounds, there were the thousands of knights, men-at-arms, merchants, whores, farmers, lordlings, lords, and ladies who were already wandering about the camp every day of the tourney. When they rode past them all, chants of their names were not the only things she heard.

Whether highborn or lowborn, every man, woman, and child spoke of her brothers’ potential clash. They had already given the match many names. Some called it _The Dance of Dragons_ , others named it _The Joust of the Black Dragon and the Silver Dragon_ , and some dared to describe it as _The Tourney of the Crown Prince and the Bastard Prince_. Arya did her best to ignore the insult to Aegon’s birth, for if she did not, her reaction would be most unladylike. _If I hear him called Blackfyre, I will speak with Lord Varys and have his little birds do more than spy on the offender._

“I promise not to be long,” Arya offered her sister, sliding from her saddle with one of her guard’s assistance. Tents of lilac and white surrounded her with banners of the same colors fluttering above. Before her stood a white tent with no sigil or colors to tell who resided within. The ten guards in black armor with the thrice-headed red dragon emblazoned upon their breastplate told Arya she had come to the right tent, if she had not already known Rhaegar pitched his tent amongst the knights of Starfall.

“Send Eddard to me,” said Senya. Arya nodded her head to her sister before waving Frost and Arghurys to part for her entrance. Both direwolves leapt up and padded past her to join their sisters.

“…I’ll worry about Ser Harys after I have unseated Ser Nigel,” she heard Rhaegar’s voice as she pushed open the tent flap. Within, both Rhaegar and Eddard wore simple grey tunics over black breeches. Rhaegar’s midnight black armor remained to the side, polished, but untouched. Her brothers looked like they were preparing for battle and not a joust, running whetstones along their swords.

“I’ll see myself out,” Eddard announced after he noticed her presence.

“See that you do. Senya wishes to speak with you,” Arya told her younger brother before he left. Rhaegar rose to his feet, abandoning the whetstone and sword. She studied his demeanor as he came forth, carefully inspecting his amethyst eyes and his clean-shaven face for any signs of nervousness or fear. Arya saw none. “Shouldn’t you be preparing for the joust?”

“I have seen all I can see. I know what I must do to unseat Ser Nigel while staying in my own saddle. And the armor, well, better I wait until the first horns. I need to save my strength and not waste it walking about this tent fully-armored,” Rhaegar explained himself before laying a hand upon the small of her back. He did not hesitate to pull her flush against his front. Arya thought to admonish him with so many Dornish knights just outside the tent, but his lips tasted so good. To make matters worse, his loving hands found their way beneath her dress, kneading her ass.

“No! We mustn’t! Not here!” Arya protested with whispered shouts. Rhaegar did not hide his displeasure, but he saw the wisdom in her words and nodded in acceptance. _At least he did not ruin my braids._

“Forgive me,” he whispered, resting his brow against her own.

“There is nothing to forgive. No matter what happens this day, we will tell them the truth, you and I…We do not need to hide it any longer,” Arya whispered back, ready to assume all the responsibilities and scrutiny that would come with being named the Crown Princess of the Realm.

They had hidden their love for so long, she had almost forgotten their reasons, but she remembered. As long as no one knew outside their siblings, they were spared the pressures of planning and discussing their future. Their relationship was something they saved for themselves and that felt like a pure thing to Arya. When it was only them, together, she never suffered the vultures at court like she would after the tourney. But all that was past and Arya knew she could no longer be the girl. _Kill the boy and let the man be born_ , she had once heard her father recall advice given to him by Maester Aemon Targaryen. Arya had decided she needed to kill the girl and let the woman be born, for she was to be the Crown Princess, and one day, Queen.

“They will know when I’ve laid a crown of roses upon your pretty hair,” Rhaegar swore in his own husky way, the way her ears liked to hear it.

“I came here to wish you good fortune, but it seems you do not need it,” Arya realized after hearing how sure he was of victory. _He has never broken a promise to me before…_

“I said some prayers in the godswood, but I do not think the old gods were listening. I am not sure they care for tourneys…But I am glad you came. I will take your good fortune,” Rhaegar said as his eyes fell from her eyes to her hands. Slowly, he lifted her hand in his and began to leave gentle kisses, “My sister…my love…my princess…my wife…my queen.”

“I am not your wife yet and I am certainly not your queen, thank the gods,” Arya tried her best to stifle the foolish little swooning girl inside her heart. His words meant everything, but she could not fall into his arms like some innocent maid whose heart belonged to a prince with gentle, loving words. “I’m sorry. I did not mean to…”

“I know,” Rhaegar said with a smile, somehow knowing everything she was thinking and feeling. He knew her heart and her mind. Somehow, she could see he knew. _He has always known me, and I, him._

Arya lost any sense of time as they stood in the middle of his tent, hugging each other. His embrace was comforting and she never tired of listening to his heartbeat. Every night they spent together, she always fell asleep to the sound of his true heart and woke to its constant thrum. Three horn blasts passing over the tourney grounds snapped her out of her trance and Rhaegar’s soothing arms. “Well, I guess this is where I must part,” Arya noted sadly before standing on the tips of her toes to leave a quick peck on his lips.

“Arya…,” Rhaegar called after her just as she brushed aside the tent flap. She turned on her heels and she could see he wanted to tell her everything and more. _There isn’t the time…._

“I know. Tell me after you have won,” she replied with a smirk and fled the tent, knowing he needed to ready himself for the first joust.

“Sister,” Eddard turned from Senya to greet her.

“Promise me his armor will be well-fitted,” she asked of her brother.

“I think I can manage that,” Eddard said, grinning after he kissed Senya farewell. Then he graced her with a peck on her cheek and hoisted her onto her mare, just as he had aided Senya.

“What did you do?” Senya asked with a raised eyebrow, almost laughing to herself. “You were quieter than two mice, both of you. Did you…”

“We did no such thing,” Arya defended herself as they weaved their way through the maze of lilac tents from Starfall. With a careful glance over her shoulder to be sure their guards did not ride too close, she continued, “We only kissed and he…he may have slid a hand into my dress, but that was it. Why are you giving me that look? You and Eddard…”

“Eddard and I are more careful. And we are not a secret. Should Rhaegar not win, rumors may still spread and…,” Senya said as they approached the road that cut through the tourney grounds.

“No matter what happens this day, everyone will know of us,” Arya whispered quickly as they nudged the reins and turned their mounts westward, toward the arena and the Unsullied encampment.

“Truly? What a relief. I am good at keeping secrets, but I worry for you more than I should. Our little sisters and brothers could say anything to anyone. It is a miracle no one has discovered the truth yet,” Senya mused as their mares galloped past a band of children that looked to be orphans from Flea Bottom. The nearest gold cloaks eyed them suspiciously. Despite all her parents had done for the poor of King’s Landing, there were still thieves amongst them, looking to steal from anyone holding possessions of any value.

“I always assumed one of the guards or a nosy handmaiden would spread a tale,” Arya admitted, knowing some had seen enough for one to reasonably assume the nature of her relationship with Rhaegar. The household guard and the servants within Maegor’s Holdfast were carefully selected for their proven loyalties, but Arya knew loyalty was not the same as discretion.

“If I had to guess, I would say the guards were frightened into silence by Ser Arthur and the maids and servants…well, you know what they say of Lord Varys and his…practices,” Senya replied. _Varys…Why would he? Unless…_

“I will ask the Spider on the morrow, but for now, I will try and forget what you have said,” Arya told her sister. She liked her handmaidens and dared not consider the threats the Master of Whispers may have levied against them.

Along her ride through the tourney grounds, Arya took in the sights, sounds, and smells she had almost forgotten from tourneys of her childhood. She had no longer marveled at the spectacle of it all, until now. Arya could not reason why. Perhaps it was the promise of the same tourney returning the next year, or all the pageantry she saw at court on a daily basis, or perhaps she was old and the love of tourneys was saved only for children, she could not decide.

Before they escaped the clutches of the Dornish encampment, a bard treated the passersby to a song recounting the tale of her grandfather, King Rhaegar, and the tourney at Harrenhal. Arya wanted to hear the rest, but her mare kept galloping and she never pulled on its reins. Instead, she rode forth, admiring the small children who had painted their faces red and black, cheering her brothers’ names. A few chased after herself and Senya, chanting her House’s words while waving small Targaryen banners in their hands. The little ones went as far as they could go before their legs tired and risked themselves being trampled by the guards riding behind them.

The tourney grounds were not just a place for knights and the people who descended upon the great arena to watch them joust. Even on the tourney’s final day, Arya saw jewel merchants haggling with patrons over their wares, bakers handing out their breads and cakes in exchange for coin, and whores revealing their breasts to any man they thought carried a sizeable purse. And there was always music. One could not travel far within the sprawling camp without stumbling upon another singer, harpist, trumpeter, drummer, flutist, or the whole lot of them.

And with the music, there was always the smell of a hundred cookfires. Whether the winds were soft or strong, the smoke passed through the tourney grounds, carrying the smells of peppered boar, burnt bacon, roasted ribs, salted beef, venison, and more. All of it reminded Arya she was hungry and eager to return to the royal tent before the first tilt.

Before they reached the tents of Lord Monford’s Driftmark knights, Arya and Senya glimpsed a company of mummers enacting their account of the Lightning Lord and his Brotherhood Without Banners. The mummers had no stage, only their props, costumes, and the ground between the blue tents of House Cressey and the white-blue tents of House Harte. The man playing Lord Beric wore a bandage over half his face, looking half a corpse with the powder on his skin. With his half-broken sword, he fought another mummer sitting on the shoulders of an already tall man. _I suppose that suffices for the Mountain, but I remember Lord Beric. This man looks nothing like him._

Across from the mummery and its crowd of curious onlookers, the gamblers were lining up to place their wagers with the bookmakers. Some of the men looked lowly and others even lower. Arya wondered how many of these men would turn to thievery or worse after the bookmakers would come to collect. Very few of them came with coin in hand and borrowed at unreasonable rates of interest. Those that came with coin looked to be wealthy merchants, sea captains, hedge knights, or sellswords. Arya saw no lords or knights of high repute, but that came as no surprise for they wagered on the tourney amongst themselves for the most part.

With the clutter of the busy tourney grounds behind them, Arya and Senya reined in their horses in the shadow of the great arena. The Unsullied were everywhere, guarding the perimeter of their encampment as well as the arena to their right. Underneath the viewing stands, guards were posted at every stairwell and every ten paces along the many walkways that circled the structure. The Master of Games walked one of the walkways, instructing the men and women who served him. Some were told to tidy the Targaryen banners, others were ordered to scrub away any dirt, and a few were instructed to rake the tilt field.

As they dismounted their mares and handed the reins to their guards, Arya saw her father speaking with Lord Samwell Tarly. Her father laughed at something the fat lord said and slapped him on the back like they were the best of friends. Arya supposed that was true. Her father had considered Samwell Tarly a friend since they were just small boys, but she could never understand why. The Lord of Horn Hill was fat, timid, unskilled in combat, and even cowardly as some said it. He was everything her father was not and none of it good. _Would his knights even follow him, if not for Father?_

“Why is Father friends with him?” Arya asked her sister once their horses were pulled away by their guards.

“Lord Samwell? It was at Highgarden, I think. Mother Visenya told me once. I know it was during a progress through the Reach. The boys were sparring in some yard before a nameday feast and Father noticed Lord Samwell was left out, friendless and alone. It was pity, she said, but then Samwell helped Father. He taught him the names and histories of all the lords and ladies they would visit for the rest of the progress. He told him everything he knew of the Houses of the Reach and which lord or lord’s son hated the others. Mother said he reminded Father of Uncle Aemon and all his wisdom in those letters from the Wall,” Senya offered what she could remember.

“So, he was Father’s little maester,” Arya made jest, returning the King’s smile as she approached.

“That is true, I suppose,” Senya replied. As they drew closer, her sister pulled on her arm and whispered, “Though, I never heard it said Lord Tarly was ever little.”

“Sam, we will speak on this after the feast,” their father said and the Lord of Horn Hill retreated within the tent. With the lord gone, Arya leaned into the King’s side as he put his arms around her shoulders and Senya’s. “Tell me, did your brothers look nervous?”

“How did you know?” Senya asked, for they did not think to tell anyone where they were going.

“I know my daughters,” was all he said before kissing both their temples.

“Eddard is playing the proper squire, stern and serious,” Senya answered, almost laughing at the notion of either Rhaegar or Eddard seeming nervous. Like their father, both brothers were not the sort to display any nerves they may hold.

“Rhaegar is ready. He will win,” Arya added in her own steely voice. _He will win for me._

“Not Aegon? He is the more experienced rider and he is better with a lance,” her father said, looking down at her with the same storm-grey eyes she had inherited.

“I wish Aegon well, but Rhaegar has my faith. He has been tireless, these past moons. Has Ser Arthur not told you?” she asked. _Or has he informed on Rhaegar from the beginning?_ Ser Arthur Dayne was almost closer to her father than any of the Kingsguard and she questioned more than once if the Dornish knight could keep a crown prince’s secret from a king.

“He told me everything…after your brother took the list field,” her father confirmed, sparing a displeased glance over his shoulder. Arya followed his gaze, finding Ser Arthur and Ser Oswell standing just within the confines of the royal tent. She almost believed her father’s act, but she sensed his disappointment was half-hearted. “I am happy for you.”

“Happy for me? Why?” Arya almost tripped over her tongue and furrowed her brow. Her voice sounded nervous and shaky, most unlike her well-practiced replies to any comments or questions that hinted at her love for Rhaegar.

“As I said, I know my daughters,” her father said. Arya did not believe him and leaned forward to peer at her sister.

“What? I did not tell him,” Senya defended herself.

“Senya did not betray you, nor any of your sisters. It was Snowstorm,” her father identified the traitor, nodding his head toward the guilt-ridden direwolf. Snowstorm could not even look at her, doing everything she could to avert Arya’s glare without fleeing. “More than once, we have seen her and Frost outside your chambers.” _So, Mothers know as well…_

“We have your blessing?” Arya asked. She suspected her parents were aware of their relationship, but she never truly admitted that fact to herself. For many moons, she lied to herself, dispelling the idea with hopeful ignorance. Now, she was just glad to soon have the burden of secrecy lifted off her shoulders. It had become more than she intended to bear.

“Aye, of course you have our blessing. In truth, it is what we always wanted, but we always wanted you both to find your own way,” said her father. They walked together, reaching the tent’s entrance to find over a hundred souls within. Besides her own family, Arya saw Starks and Martells, Tyrells and Arryns, Baratheons and Lannisters, Velaryons and Greyjoys, and the families of the Small Council. There were also Whents, Darrys, Daynes, Selmys, Blackwoods, Blackmonts, and more of House Targaryen’s strongest allies.

“What if we didn’t…love each other?” Arya spoke the poisonous impossibility.

“Then I would have supported you both, but your mothers, well, they would have taken matters into their own hands,” her father told the truth. Whenever her mothers decided upon a betrothal, they never failed to see it through, either by order or indirect coercion. “Forgive me, I must speak with your Uncle Edric. When this tourney is done and certain…affairs are put in order, I promise to spend more time with you both.”

“Father, it is alright. You are the King and we are no longer little girls. We understand,” Senya spoke for them both. It did nothing to take the pain away from their father’s face, but he tried his best to smile and hugged them with all of his might. Once he was gone, Senya turned to Arya, “What is so urgent that he must speak with Uncle Edric?”

“Refusing Leyton Hightower,” Arya whispered. Her parents were careful with their meetings in plain sight, but Arya saw a pattern forming with the lords they met. Aside from the lords sitting on the Small Council and their most fervent loyalists, the king and queens spoke at length with the Dornish and Reach lords who would provide the armies to wage war against the Faith Militant and possibly House Hightower.

“I feared you would say that,” said Senya as they navigated their way through the dozens of lords and ladies until they found their siblings and Velaryon cousins in the far corner. Laena Velaryon was as beautiful as ever, with her sea-blue dress and a small sapphire resting on her chest that matched her eyes. Her blonde hair was even fashioned in an overly-complex braid similar to Arya’s and Dany’s.

Dany, in her violet Volantene dress, laughed at some jest her twin made. Jon was all in black with more red sewn into his doublet than usual. He looked just like their father with his hair pulled back and tied in a knot. He was tall and lithe, yet strong and fearless, just like Rhaegar. Unlike their father, Jon nor Rhaegar bore any scars of war. They also lacked their father’s beard, yet Arya presumed that day would come soon enough when her brothers would look the part of hardened men and not the handsome, clean-shaven princes that they were.

“Have you spoken with Aegon?” Arya went straight to Nymeria. _If the old gods are good, one of us will be wearing a crown at the end of this day._

“I did, before he left my chambers. The stress of it is getting to him, I think. I did not like it. I told him it was just a tourney and a crown of roses is just that, a crown of flowers that will die within a sennight, but you know how he is. So, I promised he would see me when he rode out onto the list field,” Nymeria said, looking almost scandalous in her flame-red Dornish silk dress. Her neckline plunged far enough down her chest, her enticing breasts were sure to capture the attention of every knight, lord, and lordling sure to attend the final feast within the Great Hall of the Red Keep.

“He will see off this Ser Cley, then Kidwell or Donniger. I know it,” Arya assured her sister. Aegon was Rhaegar’s competition, but her little brother had all her confidence and more. She planned to cheer his name just as fiercely as Nymeria, until he faced Rhaegar. If Rhaegar were to be unseated by any of them, she wanted it to be Aegon.

“And then he will knock Rhaegar off his destrier and name me his Queen of Love and Beauty,” Sarra Naath finished Arya’s depiction of events to come, laughing at her own jest with a cup of Myrish firewine in hand.

“I should think not,” Arya laughed with her friend and took an offered cup of Arbor gold from one of the servants walking the room. “To Rhaegar and Aegon,” she toasted to her brothers’ fortunes. Sarra, Dany, and Senya joined her with their cups raised. The Arbor gold was a sweet and smooth vintage that washed down easily.

After the wine was gone and Dany finished telling the story of Ser Mark Mullendore discovering his daughter, Lia, with Gawen Uffering in one of the Maidenvault’s storerooms, they joined their siblings around the great table. Arya nibbled on a piece of venison and picked at some peas while she listened to her youngest brothers and sisters argue whether Rhaegar or Aegon would become the champion of the King’s Tourney. Every one of them was pitted against each other until their cousin Steffon Baratheon said Ser Harys Penrose would win the tourney. That earned everyone’s scorn and a smack on the head from his mother, Arya’s namesake.

“Arya,” she heard her mother’s voice and twisted in her seat to find Queen Daenerys laying a hand upon her shoulder. Her mother wished to speak with her alone, so Arya went with her mother to a quiet corner of the tent.

“Father told you,” she judged by her mother’s beaming smile.

“He did. You cannot know how happy we are for you, not until you have children of your own,” Queen Daenerys said in a trembling, yet joyous tone. Her mother almost had tears of joy in her eyes, but she was a queen and she was strong enough to keep them away with so many lords and ladies present.

“Thank you,” Arya replied, suddenly at a loss for more words.

“And now that the truth of you and your brother is known to us, I must tell you of certain changes that will be announced at the feast. Your…,” her mother began.

“I know Mother. Rhaegar told me,” she said before realizing she had revealed he had told her information he was supposed to keep secret.

“Good. A husband and a prince should never keep secrets from his wife and princess. That trust will be even more important when Rhaegar is King and you are the Queen,” her mother surprised her. Arya expected her mother to be cross with Rhaegar, for he had told her of future plans that no one else was intended to hear, except for a few certain lords and archons.

“Rhaegar never keeps secrets from me, nor I from him,” Arya added, proudly and assuredly.

“So, this news…it is sure to make a few lords wary. What do you think of it?” her mother asked, eyeing several of the lords gathered around the great table and a few speaking with Arya’s father.

“It is aggressive, but Rhaegar has informed me of the assurances that were made. As I see it, what we are to gain outweighs the potential risks. It certainly strengthens our influence and our response to the…most problematic Houses will be swifter, should they grow so bold as House Hightower,” Arya whispered, minding her surroundings even within the safety of the royal tent. Every soul within was family or the most loyal of allies, yet Arya would never forget it was her own uncle who betrayed her family and began the War of the Four Kings.

“Speaking of our most loyal of Houses, is that handsome boy still after you?” her mother inquired with a truly curious look in her eyes.

“Father’s refusal has done nothing to discourage them, I am afraid. Last night, the fool dragged me to the dancefloor and I was forced to play the kind, oblivious princess. Every night, he whispers more compliments and more promises. He even told me I would make a beautiful Lady of Oldtown. I wanted to cut out his traitor’s tongue, but I didn’t,” Arya fumed at the Hightowers’ plotting and Addam’s incessant courting.

“Then I pray you savor the sight of their disappointed faces after the tourney. You have played your part well and for that, you have our gratitude,” her mother spoke for the King and her fellow Queens.

“You need not thank me for doing one’s duty,” Arya replied. _It was the least I could do. Father has sacrificed more, so much more for duty, for House Targaryen, for the Realm._

“Still, you are my daughter and my heir and…,” her mother said until three long horn blasts sounded from the arena, followed by trumpets and the roar of the crowds. The final jousts were soon to begin and so the lords and ladies left the tent one by one. “We shall continue this later, at the feast, hopefully after one of your brothers has won and you are known to the Realm as the Crown Princess.”

Dutifully, Arya joined her brothers and sisters’ march out of the royal tent, across the small field of green grass to the jousting arena. Before they climbed the wooden flights of stairs that led to the royal box, Arya glimpsed the black Targaryen banners billowing proudly atop the peaks of the great structure. The youngest of her siblings led the procession while Arya trailed their footsteps at the end of the line. Lieutenants and sergeants of the Targaryen household guard lined their path from the tent, up the stairs, and finally to the royal box.

Arya listened to the arena roar as members of the Small Council entered the royal box. The people knew the tilts were soon to follow and their anticipation only intensified as the chants and cheers grew louder. Their voices went silent when the trumpets rang through the arena and the herald bellowed Princess Allyria’s name and title.

“Nymeria!” Arya called to her sister, who stood only a few steps above her, underneath the royal box. Nymeria came to her, brushing past Senya and Dany with some curiosity. “Please, sit next to me, if you will. It is best they do not see any animosity between us when this is done, wouldn’t you agree?”

“I do,” Nymeria concurred and returned to her place between Dany and Naerys. Customs of court still demanded they enter the royal box in order of rank and their parents had determined their rank by age.

Arya waited and waited, listening to each of her siblings’ names called by the herald while she took one step after another. Slowly inching her way up the flights of stairs, she finally heard Senya’s name ring out through the arena and the people cheered for the Princess of Summerhall.

“Princess Arya of the House Targaryen!” the herald announced her entrance as she lost sight of Senya, who descended the stairs within the royal box. Arya took a deep breath, composed her courtly mask, and lifted her skirts to take the final steps. She passed a pair of Unsullied sentries standing guard on either side of the opening and found herself greeted by the cheers of the thousands of souls seated within the jousting arena.

Across the list field, thousands of smallfolk waved red and black streamers and banners, chanting _Targaryen! Targaryen!_ and _Fire and Blood!_. Underneath the shade provided by the northern viewing stands’ roof, children of all ages could be seen jumping up and down. Arya had never heard such fervent support for her House or seen such a spectacle at any tourney. The smallfolk did this for herself and Dany at the archery range, but it wasn’t the same, for the joust was always the most important and prestigious event at tourney.

Those who did not cheer were either highborn or gamblers awaiting their fates yet to be determined on the list field. The highborn were easy to tell apart from the smallfolk, for they were the calm, seated at the center of the northern stands. King’s Landing’s shopkeepers, fishers, ship captains, blacksmiths, stonemasons, builders, bakers, innkeepers, and their children were packed into the sections over the lords and ladies’ shoulders.

Despite the fervor of the smallfolk, they still seemed louder than they should. Arya could not reason why until she spied the masses huddled around the western and eastern entrances to the list field. Thousands were gathered, leaving narrow paths for the competitors to ride into the arena. Arya was sure they would have swarmed the field, if not for the lines of gold cloaks keeping some semblance of order.

There was another difference Arya spotted before she took her first step into the royal box. Eight banners hung from the lowest row of the northern viewing stands, lining the list field. At either end, the Targaryen thrice-headed dragon was left on display. Between the banners of House Targaryen were the banners of Rhaegar and Aegon’s foes. There was the russet banner with white crossed quills for Penrose and Ser Cley Stone’s white crescent moon crossed with a golden sword over a midnight blue field. Between them, left on display, was the pale green ivy on black masonry for House Kidwell and the three bronze spearheads on a white field, within a bronze embattled border for House Moore. The pink dancing maiden of Piper and the rising red sun of Donniger were all that remained between the banners of Houses Moore and Kidwell.

Within the royal box, Lord Varys sat in the corner, whispering secrets and conspiracies with Ser Jorah Mormont. Grey Worm sat with them, though he was preoccupied scanning the arena for signs of a threat. Missandei sat beside her husband and gave Arya a courteous smile. To her right, across from Missandei, sat Kovarro, Rakharo, and their families. Next to the highest rows of the royal box, Arya noticed the archons of Essos and their families seated amongst the lords of Westeros.

Seated below her parents’ Dothraki bloodriders, Arya passed Lord Ardrian Celtigar, Lord Yohn Royce, and their ladywives. Lord Stannis Baratheon, Lady Selyse, Ser Gendry, and Arya’s namesake sat across from the Masters of Coin and Laws. Beside her aunt, Arya shared a smile with her little Baratheon cousins. Just outside the royal box to her left, Jocelyn Stark waved her hand and Alys Stark smiled in the most ladylike fashion in a beautiful green dress that was made by a seamstress from the Crownlands.

Around the Starks, Arya spied Umbers and Mormonts, Manderlys and Flints, Cassels and Glovers, and more than a dozen lords of the mountain clans. Aside from the northern Houses, there were also the lords of the Vale and the Riverlands. Lord Edmure Tully sat with his wife and children with the straight shoulders and the stern face of a great lord ready to receive an audience of smallfolk begging their lord’s decision on small matters, only he was at tourney, not Riverrun. Arya stopped herself from rolling her eyes and nodded her head to her Arryn cousins seated in the rows beneath the riverlords.

In her descent, Arya passed Lord Davos Seaworth, Lady Marya, Lord Monford Velaryon, and Grandmaester Pylos. Across the steps from the Hand of the King sat Ser Monterys Velaryon, his wife, Lady Aemma, and the champion of the melee, Barth Burley. Separated by the royal box’s wooden divide, the Tyrells and Martells sat nearest to the champion. Behind them sat Lady Yara Greyjoy, her family, and her unpleasant bannermen. Arya could sense their presence annoyed the Lannisters and westermen seated beneath them. _I cannot blame their unease. I would not tolerate their lot breathing down my neck._

After she returned a respectful nod of the head to Elys Tyrell, Arya hurried her steps, walking around the seven grand seats saved for her parents and grandmothers. Once she laid eyes on her siblings, she found her youngest siblings occupying the three rows to her right, with Alyssa Velaryon seated between Alysanne and Vaella. Arya took the seat between the aisle and Nymeria on the lowest row, a perfect place for either of them to be crowned.

“Are they wagering again?” Arya almost shouted, for the cheers were so loud after the herald recited the dowager queens’ names and titles. At the end of their row, Jon had several gold dragons in hand as he bickered with Corlys Velaryon. Senya, Dany, and Sarra Naath hardly paid them any mind as they waved to the people who shouted their names.

“Corlys has his coin on Aegon, Jon on Rhaegar,” Laena Velaryon leaned over Arya’s shoulder to inform her before Nymeria could.

“Corlys thinks it luck. He says Rhaegar has no chance against Ser Nigel or Ser Harys, assuming Reynard Piper has not made some deal with the gods. I told our dear cousin he is wrong, that Rhaegar will unseat Ser Nigel, Ser Harys, or whomever he meets on the field, except Aegon,” Nymeria explained with an apologetic tone when she reached the part about Aegon riding against Rhaegar.

“Do not feel sorry, sister. You should expect Aegon to win and pray for his victory, as I have for Rhaegar. There isn’t anything wrong about that,” Arya swore just before the final trumpets sounded, telling the arena the rulers of the Seven Kingdoms were soon to take their seats.

“Her Grace, Rhaenys of the House Targaryen, First of Her Name, Queen of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lady of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm, Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea, Queen of Essos, the Mother of Dragons, the Unburnt, the Breaker of Chains!” the herald bellowed. The people shouted _Good Queen Rhaenys, The Dragon Queen of Dorne, The Red Dragon,_ and many other unofficial titles they had bestowed upon one of Arya’s mothers. The Dornish highborn were almost as loud in their support for Queen Rhaenys as the smallfolk were, just as they were the previous nine days of tourney.

“Her Grace, Visenya of the House Targaryen, First of Her Name, Queen of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lady of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm, Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea, Queen of Essos, the Mother of Dragons, the Unburnt, the Breaker of Chains!” Arya heard another herald cry. The northmen partook in their game of outmatching the Dornish with their prideful boasts and cheers for Queen Visenya. Arya listened to them call her _The Warrior’s Queen, The Silver Dragon, The Dragon Queen of the North,_ and even _Gentle Queen Visenya_. That sounded odd to Arya, for the people considered Queen Visenya both a fierce warrior who would ruthlessly tear through her enemies on the battlefield and a gentle-hearted queen who had a soft spot for the poor. Despite the contradiction, Arya could not refute any of it because it was true.

“Her Grace, Daenerys Stormborn of the House Targaryen, First of Her Name, Queen of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lady of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm, Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea, Queen of Essos, the Mother of Dragons, the Unburnt, the Breaker of Chains!” one of the heralds shouted the titles of Arya’s birth mother. The arena called her _Wise Queen Daenerys, The Black Dragon, and the Stormborn._ The Dothraki and the crownlords were her most fervent supporters.

“His Grace, Jon of the House Targaryen, First of His Name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm, Khal of the Great Grass Sea, King of Essos, the Father of Dragons, the Unburnt, the Breaker of Chains!” yelled the herald, finally getting through the endless titles. _The Warrior, The Dragonwolf, The Grey Dragon, Wielder of Blackfyre, Savior of the Realm, The Conqueror, and The King of Ice and Fire_ , were just the names Arya heard. The smallfolk had many names for her father and they only grew more fanciful over the years. _Savior of the Realm…I like that one best. He sacrificed everything for them, for us…_

Like all the others within the jousting arena, Arya’s eyes fell upon her parents. Her father sat in his seat as he would the Iron Throne, with his back straight, shoulders postured, and chin held just high enough. He looked like a king should and her mothers looked as queenly as her father looked kingly. Each of their Valyrian steel crowns were sights to behold as well, reminding the Realm the Blood of Old Valyria still lived on through House Targaryen.

Neither her father nor her mothers were the type of rulers to waste time, so the King waved on the herald to begin the joust. “Ser Nigel Moore!” the man shouted and the knight of the Vale rode forth upon a great brown destrier. His full-plate armor glimmered silver under the sun and so did the bits of true bronze about his pauldrons and the breastplate that mirrored his very sigil. As the knight’s mount brought him before the royal box, Arya applauded Ser Nigel as did the rest of her siblings and the entirety of the audience.

“Crown Prince Rhaegar Targaryen!” the herald bellowed, followed by thunderous applause and cheering from the people. Arya rested her eyes upon the sight of him, in his dark, simple, yet elegant armor. All in black, Rhaegar rode his galloping destrier across the list field from the eastern entrance with black streamers bouncing atop his greathelm. She caught her brother’s violet eyes underneath the shadow of his helm sparing her a glance before he remembered himself and bowed before their Graces.

“He will do fine,” Nymeria assured her as they closely watched Rhaegar ride away after wishing Ser Nigel good fortune. Eddard was there at the eastern end of the list field, waiting with Rhaegar’s lances, painted all in black. Arya squeezed her sister’s hand as Rhaegar collected a lance and spun his horse around, preparing for the first tilt.

“Rhaegar! Rhaegar!” Arya stood from her seat just before the trumpeters raised their brass and ushered the first pass of riders for the final day of the tourney. Her actions were not considered proper, but her parents did not mind and no one else was of a rank to tell her or her siblings otherwise.

“Dragonstone! Rhaegar!” some of Arya’s siblings yelled as Rhaegar spurred his destrier forward, riding forth to meet one of the most renowned champions in the Seven Kingdoms upon the list field.

Arya was sure Ser Nigel Moore rode well, but her eyes did not consider the knight until Rhaegar was at him, breaking his black lance upon a bronze and white shield. The splinters of broken lances flew through the air like leaves on a gusty autumn day, littering the ground beneath them. To her dismay and relief, the first pass was a draw, earning her brother and his foe equal points.

When the riders aligned themselves again, Arya held her breath and watched, believing Rhaegar would win. To her disappointment, the second pass was more of the same, as was the third. The cheers of the people were still fervent, but they sensed the stalemate Arya sensed, and still, she cheered Rhaegar’s name.

“Come on brother! Unseat him!” Allyria cheered across the aisle with Torrhen and Arya’s youngest siblings. She knew Rhaegar could not hear them, but she liked to think he did after the fourth pass, where he nearly unseated Ser Nigel. The knight flailed about his saddle, dropping his lance and nearly meeting the dirt before he recovered himself.

“A shame. I thought we had won,” Nymeria complained beside Arya, seemingly just as frustrated. The fifth pass turned their frustration to fright when Nigel Moore returned the favor to their brother. Arya heard herself gasp when Rhaegar’s back slammed into his destrier, with only his feet and the stirrups keeping him ahorse, still competing.

“This time,” Arya assured her sisters as the splinters of a shattered lance were collected from the list field and Eddard handed Rhaegar his sixth lance. She could not tell her sisters why if they asked, but somehow Arya knew. Her love’s face was hidden underneath the black steel of his greathelm and he did not seem to curse. He did not even shake his head, yet she could sense the anger he held for himself.

“You are sure?” Nymeria asked warily. Arya did not have a chance to reaffirm her belief before the trumpets blew and the destriers charged down the list field as quick as lightning dashing across the skies over Blackwater Bay. Both riders broke their lances upon one another, but Rhaegar struck truer and stronger, toppling Ser Nigel Moore from his horse. The champion fought and fought, but one stirrup was not enough to save him from falling to the dirt.

“Rhaegar!” Arya screamed her brother’s name so giddily, she had forgotten herself and their soon-to-be-revealed secret. It was no matter, to her relief, for every other soul in the arena was either too busy cheering for Rhaegar as she was or cursing his fortune for the coin they had lost.

After Ser Nigel Moore gathered his feet and led his destrier by the reins from the list field, resisting his squire’s assistance, the heralds announced Ser Harys Penrose and Ser Reynard Piper. The knight of Pinkmaiden rode gallantly, but the dancing maiden on his shield did not save him from Ser Harys’ skill. Penrose’s lance dealt the final blow to Ser Reynard’s hopes on the third pass with a sure strike high on the chest, near the neck. Piper tumbled and tumbled and tumbled as if he were a child at play, rolling down a hill. Pinkmaiden’s champion laid still on the list field longer than anyone would have wished, but he did eventually stand under his own strength before the Master of Games’ men ran across the field to collect him.

Highborn or lowborn, all applauded Piper’s valiant efforts as he withdrew from the arena before Ser Erryk Donniger and Ser Richard Kidwell. Donniger was a well-respected knight of the Vale and a champion of several tourneys, but Nigel Moore’s shadow was cast upon all the knights of the Vale, including Ser Erryk. Arya liked the blacksmith’s work on Ser Erryk’s breastplate with the rising sun of House Donniger sculpted on its steel, yet Nymeria agreed it was no match for the beauty and elegance of Ser Richard’s armor.

Like Aegon and Rhaegar, Ser Richard Kidwell wore full plate armor of black steel as dark as a night sky. Arya’s favorite part of Kidwell’s armor was the pale green ivy enameled here and there on his breastplate, pauldrons, vambraces, and couters. Even his lances beared the pale green ivy of House Kidwell.

Usually, Arya found more times than naught, the knight with the prettier armor fell. Ser Richard Kidwell proved the exception, defeating Ser Erryk Donniger by points, breaking more lances upon the Vale knight’s shield and breastplate. Quietly, Arya prayed Donniger’s blows and the seven passes were enough to tire Ser Richard. She wanted the knight to ride against Aegon with every disadvantage she could hope for, should Aegon unhorse Ser Cley Stone before it came to a matter of points.

Ser Stafford Egen’s bastard son rode forth on a pretty destrier as white as the snows covering the Mountains of the Moon. A decent amount of smallfolk cheered as his horse spun around and neighed, for the knight was a mystery before the tourney, having only competed in lesser tourneys in the Vale. It was said he rode valiantly against Ser Nigel Moore at a tourney held by Lord Gilwood Hunter in honor of his daughter’s fifteenth nameday. Despite his gallantry, Ser Cley Stone was forgotten after he lost to Ser Nigel by points, never competing in another joust until the King’s Tourney.

“This one isn’t so humble,” Nymeria murmured as Ser Cley twirled his destrier around again and again, delighting in the adoration of the smallfolk and the nobles of the Vale who cheered his name.

“I pray Aegon smashes in his helm,” said Arya, almost venomously as her eyes studied the knight’s armor. Stone’s steel glinted under the sunlight with its finely polished finish. The crescent moons, mountains, and swords etched on his breastplate and helm were something to behold, though it made Arya wonder. _He hasn’t won any tourneys and he is just a bastard son of one knight of House Egen. He cannot afford this, surely. How?_

“That wasn’t very queenly,” Nymeria whispered in her ear as Ser Cley drew closer upon his mount, ready to bow his head before the King and Queens.

“Aye, but it was sisterly and I will not be the Queen for many, many years,” Arya defended herself as the herald yelled their brother’s name.

Atop his destrier, Aegon tried to part the sea of smallfolk congesting the eastern entrance to the list field. Victor Velaryon was unseen to Arya, but she knew her cousin was there, marching beside Aegon with a Targaryen banner fluttering and swaying above the mob of fervent supporters. A small grove of lances followed the banner and she was sure that was Valarr serving as Aegon’s squire. The gold cloaks pushed, fought, and threatened the people to stay back while the arena chanted Aegon’s name. Only when fifty or more Unsullied came forth with their shields, did Aegon’s path clear.

“He looks splendid,” Senya declared as Aegon rode down the list field in his black armor. Arya did not miss his wink toward Nymeria as he reined up beside Ser Cley. None of the noble girls seemed to notice and if they did, they certainly did not care as they shouted Aegon name. All of them pointed and gawked at his smoothed back, silver hair, not caring if he was not already promised to Nymeria. _They act as if they haven’t seen him at court and half of them play the innocent maid…_

“Aegon! Fyrestone!” Arya joined her sisters’ cheers once Aegon rode off to collect his greathelm and lance from Valarr. Her brother’s helm was masterfully forged and shaped into a dragon’s head. It was some of the finest work a blacksmith from the Street of Steel had ever done and his breastplate was almost as elegant. The thrice-headed dragon sculpted upon the black steel, enameled in scarlet red, was a perfect imitation of House Targaryen’s sigil. Arya remembered when she first laid eyes on Aegon’s armor and hearing her grandmother say it reminded her of King Rhaegar’s tourney armor.

“Aegon! Knock him off his horse!” her little sister Elia cried as fiercely as any warrior princess Arya had read of in the histories. Arya laughed at her sister’s passion and even glimpsed her father laughing with her mothers.

“Do you think he can knock Ser Cley off his horse?” Nymeria asked as they rose from their seats. They had a perfect, unobstructed view, but the tension was just the same as it was when Rhaegar rode against Ser Nigel.

“Mayhaps after the third or fourth pass,” Arya answered, leaning against the wooden ledge before her. _No knight left would fall off his horse on the first pass,_ she thought as Aegon closed his greathelm and hoisted his red-and-black lance from Valarr’s hand.

For Arya, it felt as if they waited an eternity for the trumpets. She was nervous for Aegon, more so than what she felt for Rhaegar. Rhaegar was her twin, her love, and he had all of her confidence, but Aegon was still her little brother. _May the old gods protect him and watch over him._

When the trumpets did sound, Arya felt her heart jump as they blared through the arena. Aegon’s destrier kicked up fistfuls of dirt as it lurched forth, charging down the list field at Ser Cley Stone in his gleaming silver armor. Nymeria dug her nails into the skin of Arya’s hand once Aegon reached the tilt, almost drawing blood. She would have flinched and winced at the small pain, but it was soon a lost memory as her eyes tracked Aegon’s progress.

“Aeg…,” Nymeria began to shout before her voice was drowned out by the sound of thousands of voices jubilantly crying out at once. Their brother’s lance was a shattered mess of splinters, dancing off Ser Cley’s impeccable armor. The Vale knight proved Arya wrong, losing his reins and stirrups before his back hit the dirt of the list field, sending the crowd into a frenzy.

“Aegon! Aegon!” Arya could finally hear herself cheer as her little brother rode past with his broken lance half-raised in the air, which seemed out of nature for Aegon. She expected him to hold his broken lance high in victory, basking in the glory the arena wished to bestow upon him. _Could it be? Could they face one another?_

“Go on!” Dany yelled at Aegon when he came to a halt before the royal box. For a moment, Arya thought he was ready to leap from his horse and climb up the royal box to kiss Nymeria. Torn from the haze of victory, Aegon either heard Dany or remembered where he was supposed to be. After digging in his heels, he rode off to join Valarr and Victor to prepare for the next round of jousts.

With the four victors away to their tents, the groundkeepers took advantage of the intermission and set about returning the list field to a more presentable state. Six of them, lowborn men from King’s Landing, went at the dirt with their rakes while the boys in the Master of Games’ employ picked up the smaller splinters that had been missed. Arya smiled and waved to the most curious boy of the lot before one of the groundkeepers accosted him to continue his task of clearing the field.

Fools dressed in motley appeared in the northern viewing stands not long after to clumsily juggle fruits, dance up and down the aisles, and sing bawdy songs for coin. The people seemed to like them, especially the smallfolk. Arya did not laugh and soon ignored them, for she never found fools to be amusing. The thieving firedancers and knife jugglers just outside the western entrance to the list field were much more interesting, at least for a time.

“…Ser Harys is the greatest tourney knight the Seven Kingdoms has seen in years. Rhaegar is gallant, yes, but he has never won a tourney. Ser Harys is the champion of a hundred tourneys. Rhaegar will…,” Arya listened to her Velaryon cousin bicker with Sansa, Naerys, and Daenys over the coming jousts.

“Win,” Arya twisted in her seat to finish her dear cousin’s sentence. _I do not care if Ser Harys has won a thousand tourneys. Rhaegar promised me. He never breaks his promises._

“I meant nothing by it. I…,” Laena needlessly apologized. If it were another, Arya might have reveled in her unease, but Laena was her cousin and close friend.

“I know,” Arya assured Laena just as her grandmother, Queen Lyanna Stark, descended the steps beside them. Arya admired her grandmother’s dress, for it had the elegance of the Crownlands and the modesty of the North. The silk nearly matched the blue of the sapphires on Queen Lyanna’s silver crown and it certainly complimented her fair skin. _She is still more beautiful than most of the maids at court._

“Girls, your brothers have done well. Nymeria, I think I saw one of the Appleton girls reach for your favor and try to tear it from Aegon’s arm. Be sure to fend off these blushing maids, for there will be thrice as many at the feast as you have seen this past fortnight,” Queen Lyanna counseled Nymeria before pausing to consider her next words. “And that twin of yours…He has not taken any girl’s favor? He might be trampled by the daughters of the Reach alone before he escapes the tourney grounds,” her grandmother continued in a humorous and teasing voice. _He has my favor, he just does not show it. And does she know as well? Did Father tell her?_

“The Appletons?” Nymeria asked in confirmation, then laughed at such notion. The Appleton girls were pretty with their blonde hair and green eyes, but Arya knew as well as Nymeria they were of no interest to Aegon. _If they want my brother, they must dye their eyes a dark violet, darken their hair brown, and grow larger breasts._

“Regardless, I pray either of your brothers win. I know they have it in them to choose proper Queens of Love and Beauty. It is a shame we can only have one champion…And girls, remember, we still have our duties at tourney,” their grandmother added before lifting her skirts to leave them.

“Aye,” Arya grumbled and abandoned her own seat to follow her grandmother up the stairs and out of the royal box. It was the final day of the King’s Tourney and with so many lords, ladies, archons, emissaries, magisters, and Essosi council members in attendance, they decided to briefly speak with those they could find during the intermission.

Archon Naelarys Vemaereon of Lys was Arya’s first encounter on her journey through the adjacent viewing stands. The Lysene noble complimented her dress and beauty before making her promise to visit Lys and grace its skies with Rhaegal overhead. Vemaereon’s little daughters were forever grateful to her for bringing them to the Dragonpit to see the dragons up close. Both girls made her swear to visit before she moved on to treat with Taenor Belaris, the newly appointed Archon of Tyrosh. Arya found the man as cold and serious as Stannis Baratheon. The Tyroshi’s face told her he wanted to be anywhere but this tourney. _I can see why Father chose him._

The mysterious Tregore Premar of Lorath was the last of the archons Arya spoke with and she found him a difficult man to read. His High Valyrian was nearly perfect, a surprise to her until he informed her his family was descendent from Old Valyria. She could not tell if there was evil and treachery behind his smiles or a genuine kindness. His ladywife, a beautiful Lorathi woman no older than forty, seemed just as dangerous with her dark eyes and sinister nature.

After taking her leave of the Lorathi, Arya spared a few words for the children of three noble families from New Ghis before she made her way to the northern families. Dacey Mormont complimented her brothers’ riding, Lord Tormund Giantsbane offered her a taste of true northern ale she politely declined, Greatjon Umber told her the feasts at Last Hearth put these southern feasts to shame, and the Tallharts informed her they would win a thousand gold dragons if Rhaegar won the tourney.

Arya wished the Tallharts good fortune and moved on to her Stark kin. Her Uncle Robb graced her with a hug before her Aunt Margaery complimented her complex braid and the amethyst stone resting on her chest. Jocelyn Stark scoffed at that and insisted they discuss the tourney. Daring not to refuse her cousin, Arya listened to Jocelyn’s advice for both Rhaegar and Aegon, promising she would tell them if she had the chance. Her promise earned laughs from Ned and Brynden, but Jocelyn did not seem to notice as she went on about Ser Richard Kidwell’s weaknesses. The trumpets eventually saved her from Jocelyn and all of the counsel she still had yet to offer.

“I thought we had lost you to the North,” said her mother, Queen Daenerys, as she hurried to her seat as quickly as her dress allowed while maintaining her own royal gracefulness.

“Perhaps on the next royal progress,” Arya quipped back before finding her seat beside Nymeria. Her sister seemed a bit anxious, fiddling with her ruby encrusted ring while her eyes shifted from one side of the list field to the other, back and forth. _I cannot recall her looking so nervous._ “Nymeria…”

“I am fine,” Nymeria assured her and stilled her nervous hands once Rhaegar emerged from the sea of smallfolk brimming at the eastern entrance. “Look. He is ready,” she added, nodding toward Rhaegar. Arya could not deny it. Her twin rode his destrier like he would along a game trail through the Kingswood or one of the many trails encircling the lake at Summerhall. Instead of taking in the beauty of a forest around him, Rhaegar took in the sight of small Targaryen banners waving in the stands and the sound of his name echoing throughout the arena.

Ser Harys Penrose was greeted with cheers of his own name, but it paled in comparison to the fervor Rhaegar received. Arya struggled to hear the knight’s name. She almost pitied the much-heralded knight in his rose-gold armor, yet she still added her voice to those shouting Rhaegar’s name. There was nothing Ser Harys or any knight in the Seven Kingdoms could do to make her cheer against her brother. Even if he was not her lover, but a distant brother who shared nothing with her, she would still cheer his name.

 _Finish him. Finish him in one pass. Dirty that pretty armor of his_ , Arya thought after Rhaegar and Harys bowed their heads before the King and Queens. Neither wasted their time to acknowledge the people chanting their names. Ser Harys rode his white destrier to his squire to collect a lance painted russet while Rhaegar made for Eddard holding a simple black lance.

“Rhaegar! Dragonstone! Fire and Blood!” yelled Lyarra and Allyria. _Fire and blood…If only that would frighten Ser Harys._

The arena became so loud with cheers of the riders’ names, Arya gave up crying out her brother’s name. Instead, she leaned forward, narrowed her eyes, and focused on every small movement her brother made. One hand gently pulled and nudged the reins while the other affirmed its grip on the lance. His feet moved here and there in the stirrups, ready to spur his horse forward. She noticed he glanced once to the tip of his lance that pointed to the sky, before his eyes returned to Ser Harys, like a hunter tracking its prey.

 _He will win. He will win. He will win_ , Arya told herself over and over until the trumpets blared and Rhaegar’s destrier charged forth. Racing down the tilt, both riders slowly lowered their lances until they were pointed at one another, daring the other to flinch. Neither did and the clash was a chaotic mess, resulting in two shattered lances. Rhaegar fell back on his horse, but his feet remained secure in the stirrups.

Harys recovered just as quickly as Rhaegar and they both readied for another pass. Both were disciplined in their preparations and carefully lined their destriers up for another pass soon after. To Arya’s dismay, Harys won a small triumph on his second try, breaking his lance upon Rhaegar’s shield. Her twin only landed a glancing blow on Penrose’s pauldron.

The third pass provided Rhaegar his chance to return the favor and so he did, destroying another black lance against Ser Harys’ breastplate. Arya cheered and marveled at Rhaegar’s perfect aim, avoiding the knight’s shield. His strike was so swift and strong, she almost believed Penrose would fall from his saddle, but the knight was too well-trained and too determined to fail this far into the tourney.

A fourth pass almost compelled Arya to leap with joy when Rhaegar broke another lance, this time against his foe’s shield. Her brother had the advantage in points, until he didn’t when Ser Harys nearly knocked Rhaegar from his destrier with a sure blow to the breastplate. Rhaegar fought to stay in the saddle, reeling from the impact of the lance on his chest. His face was hidden to her, but Arya could imagine how he winced underneath.

“Seven hells!” Jon and Corlys cursed after the sixth try. Both riders came away with broken lances and scuffed shields.

“He is going to be too tired for the final joust,” said Sansa, seated over Arya’s shoulder.

“Curse the final joust. He needs to win this one,” Arya could not help herself and spat back at her sister. Another time and another place, she might have apologized, but Rhaegar needed her. He was not looking for her, but Arya told herself he needed her watchful eyes and support.

“He will win,” Nymeria said in such a calm and sure tone, Arya realized she was not as confident in Rhaegar as she had thought. _I have been lying to myself._

Once she realized her true feelings, Arya started to feel the drumming of her own heart inside her chest. She only felt like this when she attempted something daring on Rhaegal or when she raced her sisters along the cliffs of Dragonstone. It all felt overwhelming until the trumpets signaled the seventh and final pass.

This time, Arya dug her nails into Nymeria’s hand as they both held their breaths and followed Rhaegar’s black destrier charge down the list. It seemed so slow, she could almost count every hoof imprint the destrier left in the dirt, but her eyes narrowed in and focused solely on the tip of his lance. Arya watched and waited as seconds felt like hours, until they didn’t and it was all over.

“Rhaegar!” she leapt off her feet, chanting her brother’s name as he rounded the list with a broken lance while Ser Harys’ remained intact. Arya intended to look upon her love with prideful eyes, but she was consumed by her celebrations with her sisters. She hugged Nymeria with all of her might and did the same with Senya. By the time she turned around, Rhaegar was off with Eddard, cutting a path through the smallfolk outside the jousting arena. _It was not Ser Harys with his back in the dirt, but it will do. Mayhaps Aegon will dirty the Ivy Knight’s armor._

Moments after Rhaegar was away, riding through a swarm of adulation, Aegon entered the arena to similar praise. Arya could hear them shouting _Silver Prince_ , _Prince Aegon_ , _Prince of Fire_ , _Prince of Fyrestone_ , and some dared to scream _Bastard Prince_. She ignored that insult, though strangely enough, the people shouting the insult sounded like Aegon’s most fervent supporters. His excellent riding and his remarkable armor seemed to have won him thousands of supporters.

“A gold dragon says Aegon knocks Ser Richard off his horse in three passes,” Sarra Naath offered a wager for anyone to take.

“I’ll take that wager. My brother has done well, but I have seen this Ser Richard unhorse more great knights. Aegon will win on the fifth pass, I should think,” Daenys surprised Arya, taking up the wager. Arya shook her head with Nymeria, for this tourney was more than gold coins to themselves. A crown of roses was worth more to them than a thousand gold dragons. Nymeria wanted to see Aegon named the champion and the attention of the entire court at King’s Landing was not something she shied away from. Arya also wanted her twin to be known as a tourney champion, but more than anything, she wanted the entire Realm to see he had won it for her.

“You aren’t nervous,” said Arya after she realized all the tension and anxiety within Nymeria was gone. Even as Valarr handed Aegon his first lance, Nymeria seemed as calm as Grandmaester Pylos reading one of his great books.

“No, not anymore,” Nymeria replied as the trumpeters lifted the brass to their lips and sent the riders forth. All too quickly, the first pass was done and Ser Richard Kidwell claimed the advantage, breaking his lance upon Aegon’s shield. “He will win,” Nymeria added all too confidently as Aegon pass them by with his red-and-black lance fully intact.

Arya started to worry after the second pass when her brother missed his mark again, only laying a glancing blow upon Ser Richard’s black pauldron painted with pale green ivy. _Will I be proven wrong again? Will this knight in his pretty armor defeat my brother? Mayhaps Aegon has the prettier armor. Mayhaps I have grown too used to our House’s colors._

“Sarra was right. Aegon will win this on the third try,” Nymeria boasted in a near whisper as the worried crowds grew silent, fearful their prince was facing a defeat at the hands of the knight from Ivy Hall.

“You are sure?” Arya asked nervously and regretfully. She did not wish to doubt her brother, especially now, when he was so close to reaching the final joust.

“I am. He is mad. I can tell,” Nymeria said, compelling Arya to return her gaze to Aegon. All she saw was his dragon’s head helm looking the list field up and down as he grabbed another lance from Valarr. _Our brother mad is not always the best thing._

“Aegon! Fyrestone! Knock him off his horse!” Arya cheered with her sisters as soon as her brother’s destrier bolted from the eastern end of the field. Aegon’s scarlet streamers danced like the tail of an angry dragon as he spurred his mount to charge faster and faster. Arya followed his progress all the way to his lance meeting the center of Ser Richard Kidwell’s breastplate. The knight clung to his saddle like ivy clinging to a ruined castle wall, but Aegon’s blow was too much. His foe tumbled and rolled across the dirt.

“I’ll have that coin!” Sarra shouted over the cheers to Daenys. Each of them celebrated after Ser Richard walked away unhurt and unassisted. Senya and Dany hugged and laughed while Naerys and Sansa applauded Aegon as he rode past the royal box. Nymeria remained calm, but Arya could see her sister was leaping and shouting beneath her brimming smile.

“At least one of us will be crowned,” Arya said as the viewing stands started to thin for the second intermission. It would be another hour or more before Aegon and Rhaegar took to the list field.

“Aye,” Nymeria agreed.

“A part of me feels guilty. This was to be Aegon’s tourney. It was to be your crown of roses. You’ve always wanted this and Aegon has practiced for over a year. And you have always…,” Arya confessed the small threads of doubt creeping in her mind. _Was I selfish? Why did I not ask Nymeria before? I could have refused Rhaegar’s plan._

“Arya, it is just a crown of roses. I will not deny, I have always dreamed of Aegon winning the King’s Tourney and naming me his Queen of Love and Beauty, but if it is not meant to be, it is not meant to be. Besides, it is fitting for our future queen to be named the Queen of Love and Beauty. Wouldn’t you agree? If Aegon loses, there will always be another King’s Tourney. And if he wins, well then…I will never let you or Rhaegar hear the end of it,” Nymeria teased her, earning a gentle shove from Arya.

Not long after the fools, bards, firedancers, and the like returned to jousting arena, Arya followed her brothers and sisters out of the royal box. They intended to enjoy the comforts of the spacious royal tent while they waited for Aegon and Rhaegar to gather what rest they could. During her descent, down the wooden stairs beneath the viewing stands, Arya considered riding out to meet Rhaegar again, but she quickly rid of herself of the idea. The tourney grounds were more crowded with smallfolk and highborn than she could ever remember and Rhaegar was not so weak he needed her strength to ignore the pain of the blows Ser Nigel Moore and Ser Harys Penrose landed.

“Ah! There you are, my good-sister,” Meredyth Hightower appeared from the shadows near the stairs’ end, quickly entwining her arm with Arya’s. _Good-sister? This bitch has the nerve to call me…_ “Well, perhaps we are not sisters yet, but soon, we shall be. Yes, I know the King has refused my great-grandfather’s offer of betrothal, but Rhaegar is not promised to another, though I suppose you already know that. He has told me so often, he thinks I have not taken his hints. These past ten days have felt like a lifetime. He is so handsome and strong, your brother. And he is wise, wiser than these fools I see attempting to court you. My apologies, a princess as beautiful as yourself should not suffer such…lesser men. Boys they are, really. But not my Prince, oh, he is so much more.”

“Rhaegar is…,” Arya tried to speak as Meredyth Hightower led her across the green grass to the royal tent. _She leads me, as if she is the princess and I, the daughter of some lord. I should feed her to Rhaegal. Yes, that is what she deserves._

“Such a terrific rider. His first tourney and he defeats Ser Harys Penrose. The Seven have blessed him. Your brother, Aegon, he has done well but he has not seen the knights Rhaegar has faced. My dragon prince, he dare not say it, but I always see the truth in his wonderous violet eyes. He means to name me his Queen of Love and Beauty. Just like King Jon and Queen Daenerys…He has told me the story. It is why he rides without a sigil on his armor. He wanted his armor to look just like the King’s. Has he told you?” Meredyth Hightower continued, sounding so proud of herself. _Lies! All Lies! He has not spoken to you about Father and Mother. I should call for Snowstorm and have her rip your lying tongue out. And he rides in black armor because of Father. He rides with no sigil because he wanted train in secret, you evil bitch. If he wanted to follow our father’s path, he would ride as a true mystery knight._

“No, he hasn’t,” Arya controlled her temper with her calmest, courtly tone. Now she finally understood why Nymeria hated the Hightower girl with all her heart. During a royal progress through the Reach many years ago, Meredyth Hightower had told her sister lies, tricked her into giving away a small pearl necklace, and whispered in Nymeria’s ear that some of the boys from Oldtown thought her ugly.

“Hmm, well then, after he crowns me his Queen of Love and Beauty, I shall give him an earful and tell him not to keep so many secrets from his dear sister,” Meredyth said before Snowstorm stopped her feet from the royal tent. Arya almost smiled with pride as her direwolf bared her teeth at her enemy.

“I am afraid this is where we part. My apologies for Snowstorm,” Arya offered as her wolf continued to growl and snare at Meredyth. “She can be so wild sometimes. I think it is the tourney. It has gotten to her. And as for Rhaegar, I know he will choose his Queen of Love and Beauty wisely. He has always had a keen sense for those who are true to him.” Meredyth smiled at that, believing Arya thought her to be true and loyal, before turning on her heels to join her kin and the other highborn not permitted in the royal tent.

It was almost deafening, the sound of her brothers’ names shouted from the smallfolk and even some of the highborn. The northmen cheered and chanted Rhaegar’s name as his destrier returned to the eastern end of the list field whereas the Dornishmen did the same for Aegon as he rode off to his end of the field. Arya could not remember a King’s Tourney with so much passion for the riders. She remembered many southern knights with their fair share of supporters, but for her brothers, it was different.

Over a thousand knights and highborn men competed in the joust and in the end, only her brothers, two princes of House Targaryen remained. It almost seemed impossible, but it wasn’t. A few lords here and there amongst the crowd held their stoic, neutral faces, but they were alone. Everyone else had chosen their favorite, knowing they might never see two princes set against each other in the final joust of a King’s Tourney again.

 _He looks tired and beaten_ , Arya thought as she watched her brother move stiffly upon his mount. Seven passes against Ser Harys Penrose had seemingly taken their toll. Rhaegar hid his grimace well when he bowed before their parents, but she noticed the subtle hint of pain from the small quiver on his lips and the tiniest wince from his eyes. _Find your strength, Brother._

“I thought I would enjoy this moment, but now…I only feel sick,” Nymeria said what Arya was thinking. Eddard was already handing Rhaegar one of his black lances while Aegon lifted one of his lances painted in the colors of House Targaryen from Valarr.

“They will be fine,” Arya nearly shouted with the hope of calming Nymeria’s nerves and assuring herself. She bolstered her efforts by taking her sister’s hand as they watched their brothers pull on their reins until their destriers were aligned with the tilt.

The jousting arena only grew louder and the viewing stands seemed to almost shake underneath the onlookers as the seconds passed. Arya waited with bated breath, listening carefully for the blaring of the trumpets. The trumpeters waited and waited until the cheers softened just enough for the Master of Games to wave them on.

Rhaegar’s destrier bolted down the list field so quickly, she thought he had started before the signal until she glimpsed Aegon in her periphery. Neither prince was slow in his reaction. Whatever pain Rhaegar fought, it did not prevent him from executing a proper approach. Arya feared his lance arm might tremble or his other might falter with the reins or shield. Her fear was for naught.

Just as he had done dozens of times before in the tourney, Rhaegar lowered his lance on approach, steadied his aim, corrected it by an inch or two, and kept his eyes on his target. Arya’s eyes tracked every movement to their end until a rider’s aim meant nothing, only his strength and resilience to stay in the saddle.

“Aegon!” Nymeria leaned forward and cheered as Aegon returned to Valarr for another lance. The one in his hand was broken, shattered into a dozen or more splinters. Arya feigned a smile for her little brother as he passed. It had felt like he put a spear through her once unshakeable confidence in Rhaegar.

Rhaegar failed to break his lance upon on Aegon’s shield or breastplate. Instead, he took a lance to the chest. Arya fiddled with her necklace, his gift to her, as she looked on with dread as he called on all of his strength and sheer will to stay atop his mount. Every movement after was slow and ungraceful.

“Rhaegar!” Arya found her voice and shouted, praying he would hear her. She knew better, but she cried out his name all the same.

While Eddard appeared to give Rhaegar counsel and another lance, the shouts for Aegon grew louder. It left a bitter taste in Arya’s mouth. She hated them all. They saw her brother’s pain and like a pit of vipers, they were ready to attack him at his weakest. She wanted to shout and curse them, but that was below her. Arya remembered she was a princess of House Targaryen, so she held her tongue and donned her royal mask while secretly fuming at the world.

“Oh no! Rhaegar!” Sansa shouted with frightful concern after the second clash. It was worse than the first pass and Arya could not find her own voice. All she could do was stand there in the royal box and look on nervously. Rhaegar rode past the northern stands to return for another lance, hunched over in his saddle with one hand on the reins and the other pushing himself up. One of the groundkeepers had to retrieve the one he had dropped after almost falling from his horse a second time. _Come on Rhaegar, you can win. I know it. I have dreamed it. You promised._

“He should forfeit. Look, he is hurting,” Laena said, noting Rhaegar’s struggle to take his third lance from Eddard.

“Forfeit? My brother will not forfeit!” Naerys spat out with an uncharacteristic venom in her voice. Arya thought to turn around and thank her sister, but she could not take her eyes off Rhaegar. _A dragon does not forfeit. Father would never forfeit. Mothers would never forfeit._

Arya added her voice to the thousands screaming Rhaegar’s name on the third pass. She had prayed to the old gods and even the ones of Old Valyria, hoping one of them might listen to her pleas. None of them listened. Rhaegar absorbed a third brutal blow from Aegon while only laying a glancing blow upon Aegon’s shoulder. Again, he was sent reeling while Aegon went on triumphantly with a shattered lance in hand. One more shattered lance and it would all be over, for Aegon had all the points.

With unshed tears in her eyes and a heavy heart, Arya watched Rhaegar from afar as he struggled to sit upright atop his great black destrier. Gripping the lance did not appear the struggle it once was, but Arya noticed Rhaegar’s shield arm sagging. He had taken so many blows, she wondered how many more he could withstand. _One? None?_ Arya wanted to cry, not for herself, but for Rhaegar. He had put everything into his training and to come up short this close, her heart broke for him. _He deserves this, more than anyone. Let him have this one glory. I don’t even care about the crown of roses._

“Do not lose hope, Arya. He will be fine. I can see it,” said Rhaenyra in the most soothing voice. Her little sister surprised her, leaving her seat to stand beside Arya at the bottom of the royal box. Alysanne and Vaella soon followed, filling in the open space in the aisle to get a better look. Soon enough, the entire arena was on its feet, anticipating the tourney’s end with one more decisive blow that would see Aegon named Champion of the King’s Tourney.

Arya could not find her own voice and returned her little sister’s kindness with a thankful nod. Her mind told her Rhaenyra was wrong, but Arya’s heart wanted to believe her sister’s wisdom. Her heart wanted to believe Rhaenyra’s dark amethyst eyes were more adept at spotting defeat and triumph from all the times she spent in the training yards, sitting and observing their siblings’ battles.

“Rhaegar!” Arya heard herself cry out with the blaring of the trumpets. For the fourth time, Rhaegar dug in his heels and spurred his horse forward, down the list field with his black streamers dancing in the wind behind his greathelm. Somehow, the gods had answered her prayers, or Rhaegar heard her cheers and resumed his graceful form. He looked the proper knight, leaning forward just enough, lowering his lance to its proper place, keeping his eyes on his foe, and holding his shield where it was needed. Gone was the broken, weary prince in black. Arya laid eyes on the Prince of Dragonstone and the heir to the Iron Throne. Rhaegar knew the weight he carried with such titles and responsibilities. _He is fighting for me, for himself and his name, for us…_

“Yes! Yes!” Arya leapt off her feet, forgetting herself in the moment. Her brothers met at the center of list, riding with great haste at one another. All of their strength and will were behind their lances, but Rhaegar steadied his aim where he had not done so before. Aegon was too eager to finish the joust, easing his shield with all of his focus on the strike. He came away with a broken lance upon Rhaegar’s breastplate, but failed to stop Rhaegar from landing the winning blow upon his gorget. Aegon was caught unawares and fell from his horse.

The crowd roared with thunderous applause and cheer in the aftermath. Rhaegar reeled in his saddle, holding onto the reins with all his might. The well-trained destrier ignored the tugs and pulls from his arms and the kicks from his legs, giving Rhaegar the chance to gather himself before he reached Eddard at the western end of the list field.

“Is he alright? Is he alright?” Nymeria demanded an answer from someone, anyone in her half-choked voice. Arya forgot Rhaegar’s triumph in that moment and turned her gaze to her brother lying still in the dirt. The arena did not seem to take notice, still cheering and celebrating the surprise turn of events. All was lost for Rhaegar, until it wasn’t.

“Look, he is fine,” Jon calmed them all when Valarr and Victor rushed out to see to Aegon’s injuries and health. Valarr reached out to give Aegon a hand and was refused. Stubborn like most of her brothers, Aegon waved him off and cursed himself as he stood on his own two feet. Arya could not see his face to read his lips and she certainly could not hear him over the crowd, but she could see the way his helm moved about with a certain rage.

“Do not do something foolish,” Nymeria muttered once Aegon removed his helm, revealing the scowl marking his face. Arya worried as much as her sister, but Aegon surprised them both when Rhaegar and Eddard joined them before the royal box. Aegon remembered they were brothers, not foes, and hugged Rhaegar after offering unheard congratulatory praise. Arya knew her parents had stood from their seats of prominence behind her when her four brothers and their cousin went on bended knee. The arena went quiet moments after, waiting to hear her father speak.

“Rise!” her father commanded with a booming voice she so rarely heard. Rhaegar and Aegon were the first to rise to their feet, followed by Eddard, Valarr, and Victor who served as their squires. “For over three hundred years, the Seven Kingdoms have seen many great tourneys, remembered for their great champions and their champion’s most valiant foes. We still tell the tales of these knights and their chivalrous deeds, some from before the Conquest when this Realm was seven, not one. These tales must never be mistaken for acts of valor upon a true battlefield, but they are important to the Realm in their own right. It is with every King’s Tourney we remember those knights, for their triumphs and their defeats. We remember this is a time of peace, celebration, and bountiful harvests. These tourneys unite this kingdom as one people.”

Arya kept her eyes on her brothers and then the people listening across the list field. Every soul held their tongue as their King spoke. _These tourneys bring us together, but for how long? So many soon forget. These Hightowers and Faith Militant are proof of that._

“And as one people, the Realm witnessed the prowess of Ser Harys Penrose, the valor of Ser Richard Kidwell, the determination of Ser Cley Stone, the strength of Ser Nigel Moore, the resilience of Ser Erryk Donniger, and the honor of Ser Reynard Piper. It was my honor, as their King, to watch these knights treat us to the greatest King’s Tourney I have seen in my years. And as their father, it was my greatest honor to see Prince Aegon and Prince Rhaegar conduct themselves with the qualities expected of a prince,” her father continued until Arya noticed her little sisters clearing the aisle for Queen Daenerys and Queen Rhaenys.

“Ten thousand gold dragons shall go to my son, Prince Aegon of Fyrestone, for second place in the joust!” Queen Rhaenys announced. Targaryen guards came forth with chests of gold coin, presenting them before Aegon, Valarr, and Victor. All of the smallfolk and Dornish nobility cheered and chanted Aegon’s name, while Eddard went and retrieved Rhaegar’s destrier.

“As champion of this King’s Tourney, my son, Crown Prince Rhaegar of Dragonstone, shall receive twenty thousand gold dragons!” Queen Daenerys announced as soon as the people quieted to hear her speak. Their silence was fleeting. The cheers returned once more guards came forth with more gold. Arya suspected some of the smallfolk cheered not only for her brother’s victory, but for his expected charity. “And as the Champion of the King’s Tourney, it is your right to choose your Queen of Love and Beauty.”

The entire arena went silent at her mother’s words. Every soul waited with anticipation as her mother held out the beautiful crown of blue winter roses. Arya felt herself go flush as her heart tumbled and swirled like an innocent, silly maid. She had always wanted this and it was made all the more sweeter with the sight of the blue petals gracing her crown. It was the crown she imagined whenever she heard the story of her father choosing her mother before duty or the tale of her grandfather surprising the lords of the Realm at Harrenhal, choosing her grandmother for his second wife.

Not a moment after her mother laid the crown upon his lance did the not so silent whispers begin. Every gossiping maid within the arena was now speculating as to who her brother would crown. Arya still remembered Meredyth Hightower’s boldness and prayed she truly believed Rhaegar would choose her, but the Hightower girl was soon a forgotten memory. Arya loved Rhaegar for his dedication and love for her. His dark amethyst eyes did not go in search of some mysterious beauty one might find within the viewing stands. Rhaegar’s eyes went from their mother’s eyes to her own as he moved the tip of his lance a foot over, laying the crown of blue roses in her arms.

Whatever silence remained was lost when Nymeria lifted the crown from her trembling hands and rested it perfectly upon on Arya’s silver braids. Arya gave her sister a smile of gratitude, knowing Nymeria deserved it as much as herself, if not more. _Thank you, Sister._

The overwhelming sense of relief and pleasure dulled once Arya set her eyes upon the cheers and applause from the smallfolk and the nobility. She was sure the people understood her brother’s choice when she heard their names shouted together, but she did not intend to leave any thread of doubt within the minds of a single person who left the tourney grounds.

“Rhaegar! Wait!” Arya called out to her love, stopping him before he could ride off to his tent in triumph. She needed to do this one last thing. Telling him to come forward with one finger, he rode forth until he was just beneath the royal box, staring up at her like he was seeing the most beautiful woman in the world for the first time. Doing what she set out to do, Arya leaned over the ledge and found her brother’s lips, treating him with a small taste of his reward.

**Crown Prince Rhaegar Targaryen**

“We almost didn’t make it,” said Eddard, laughing as they rounded the southwestern corner of the jousting arena, making for the royal tent. Rhaegar knew his brother was not wrong. The Unsullied were forced to form a shield after the gold cloaks failed to keep the smallfolk at bay. Thousands of wild, raving onlookers were waiting for them at the western entrance of the list field after the final joust.

“Giving away the lances, that was clever,” Rhaegar complimented his brother’s charity. Rhaegar had no use for the broken nor intact lances. It meant nothing to him, giving them away to children from the city or the lands surrounding King’s Landing. _Perhaps the lances will fetch them good coin. Or perhaps they will keep them as cherished possessions. Maybe one or two of those boys will be inspired to become a knight._

“Did you see them fighting over them?” Eddard asked and shook his head in disbelief.

“Aye, that is why I instructed the captain to see each of them safely through the camp,” Rhaegar answered. There were countless thieves and worse who wandered the tourney grounds, day and night. Knowing some of the children were without their fathers, if they had one, he ordered Braveshield and his Unsullied to protect them.

“It would seem Aegon and Valarr had similar ideas,” Eddard said as they both observed their brothers entering the great royal tent with Victor Velaryon following close on their heels. None of them carried a lance and there wasn’t a Targaryen soldier or a squire in their service carrying lances away.

“Or the smallfolk made off with them by force,” Rhaegar jested, guessing his brothers faced a similar greeting from the adoring smallfolk.

Their progress from the list field to the nearby Unsullied encampment may have been delayed, but Rhaegar and Eddard still came by highborn lords, ladies, and their children spilling out of the arena. Most paid their compliments, many applauded, and some even cheered his name again. Several boisterous northern lords promised to toast ales to himself and Arya, the most fervent of them being the lords along the Wall, for all that they had gained derived from House Targaryen’s decision to dissolve the Night’s Watch.

“Seven hells! Where have you been?” Rhaegar shouted to his direwolf. Frost sat on his haunches outside the royal tent with his packmates, daring any enemy to take their chances. Rhaegar leapt off his destrier as soon as he could, rushing to meet Frost after handing the reins to one of the stableboys from the Red Keep. “I thought you would have come to my tent. I did not expect you to follow my commands.”

“They are good direwolves. Not like those wild things that follow Aunt Arya or Aunt Sansa,” Eddard added, running his hands through Arghurys’ grey and black fur. _At least Lady’s pack is far away, in the Mountains of the Moon._

“Those wolves do not follow Aunt Arya or Aunt Sansa. They follow Nymeria and Lady,” Rhaegar reminded his brother while giving Frost one last scratch behind the ear. “Well, we might as well get on with it before Mothers send someone looking for us.”

Trailing his brother’s footsteps, Rhaegar followed Eddard past the direwolves and the two Targaryen guards protecting the royal tent’s entrance. Inside, they were greeted with applause and smiles from familiar faces. Besides their own family, Rhaegar spotted Starks and Baratheons, Tyrells and Arryns, Velaryons and Celtigars, Blackwoods and Blackmonts, and Seaworths and Royces. There were also the archons and emissaries from across the Narrow Sea, eagerly waiting to curry favor with their future king. Rhaegar prayed those men were long dead before a crown was set upon his own head.

“Well done, my boy, well done,” his great-grandmother was the first to greet him, with a pinch on the cheek and a hug that was all too strong for an elderly queen of her stature. “I was quite taken with that display and your choice, but your sister…Reckless, I say. What madness overcame her to do something like that? Love, is it? That kiss might have thrown this camp into chaos. They will be cheering your names and toasting to your love until the sun sets and rises and sets and so on until we have a wedding.”

“I cannot control what my sister does or does not do. I never have,” Rhaegar defended himself, laughing at his grandmother’s feigned anger.

“Do not lie to me or yourself. That girl is willful, but she listens to you,” his grandmother added before letting him pass. Lords Monford Velaryon and Davos Seaworth, the closest things he had to grandfathers were the next to congratulate Rhaegar and wish him well. Lord Ardrian Celtigar promised him a kingly wedding gift whenever the day should come and Lord Yohn Royce complimented his riding in the lists.

“You knew,” Rhaegar said as soon as he came upon his smiling grandmothers, Queen Elia Martell and Queen Lyanna Stark. Whatever it was in their eyes or their smiles, he knew they were unsurprised by his choice for a Queen of Love and Beauty.

Queen Lyanna was the first to embrace him after staring him down with her grey eyes. _Arya’s eyes._ His Dornish grandmother did not give him a chance to speak or breathe, wrapping him in her fierce grip. She always seemed stronger than she looked.

“We have always known,” Queen Lyanna said, dressed in one of her finest Pentoshi dresses. It was as blue as the sapphires encrusted in her crown. She preferred her northern wardrobe to the preferred styles of the Crownlands. On warm days such as this one, she chose Essosi dresses that allowed her to breathe and not sweat like some kitchen wench. Her smooth raven hair tumbled freely over her shoulders with waves here and there, without the curls Rhaegar inherited from his father.

“This mummer’s farce has never fooled us, nor your parents,” Queen Elia confirmed, wearing a red Dornish dress, one of her favorites because it matched the rubies on her crown. Unlike Lyanna, Elia wore a simple braid before the rest of her hair fell freely to the sun-kissed olive skin of her shoulders.

“I guess I shouldn’t be surprised. We tried to hide it. Our parents, we had our suspicions that they knew,” Rhaegar mused as he felt a great weight being lifted from his shoulders. Hiding everything with Arya was fun for a time, but for many moons, it had become too much. He could not tolerate the countless sons of lords courting Arya, nor the ceaseless approaches from the highborn girls who visited Dragonstone or King’s Landing.

“They are smarter and more perceptive than you give them credit for,” Queen Lyanna replied with her always knowing look.

“And you made mistakes, your wolves most of all. Those beasts are great protectors, yes, but they stand out in the confines of a castle. More than once, Frost and Snowstorm have been seen guarding either of your rooms through the night, into dawn,” Queen Elia added with a smirk on her lips. Rhaegar felt overwhelmed by that embarrassment and averted his guilty eyes from his grandmothers. “There is no shame in it, as long as you have taken certain…precautions.”

“Grandmother…,” Rhaegar complained, wishing to be anywhere else.

“Go on then. Do not let us keep you from your sister,” Queen Elia bid him his leave.

Rhaegar’s search was delayed by several of his brothers and sisters. Daeron complimented a stratagem he had conjured in his head, believing his pain and bruises to be a farce. Rhaegar told his little brother otherwise, but always the stubborn one, Daeron did not seem to believe him. Rhaella complimented his bravery and pulled Daeron away to join their Stark and Tyrell cousins.

Torrhen and Allyria recounted everything they had seen as if he had not lived it himself, but Rhaegar listened to his youngest siblings anyway. After he promised to spar with Torrhen on the morrow, Maekar and Robb offered their service as squires should he enter another tourney. Lyarra shamed him for knocking Aegon off his horse, but failing to do the same to Ser Harys Penrose. Rhae and Lya promised to make a song of his triumph while Rhaenyra swore she would gift him a painting of the moment he crowned Arya. Benjen and Daemon were the last to offer him their congratulations and their childish jests.

Finally, free of his siblings, Rhaegar came upon Arya and their parents. His father looked as kingly as he ever did with his Valyrian steel crown resting upon his head. The square rubies along the band, beneath its sharp points, matched the red thread woven throughout his black doublet. Blackfyre rested on his hip, with its dragon crossguards and the glimmering ruby pommel that matched his crown.

Beside his father stood Rhaegar’s mothers in their assortment of Essosi silk dresses. Queen Rhaenys donned a red Meereenese dress, as she always did for days such as these. The silk matched the rubies on the Valyrian steel crown resting upon her head. Rhaegar was always sure all of the red added to the dragonscale band and the flamed points of her crown intimidated the weaker lords who were easily persuaded or coerced by symbolism.

Between Queen Rhaenys and the King stood Queen Visenya. Like her fellow queens, Visenya wore her silver hair in a complex Dothraki braid with spiraling tendrils falling down her cheeks. The sapphires within the dragonscale and wolf pelts along the band of her crown complimented her silver dress. She looked as perfect as any queen could, but Rhaegar always thought she looked strange without Dark Sister sheathed on her hip.

“My son!” Queen Daenerys came forth and kissed him upon his cheek, forced to stand on the tips of her toes. Her purple silks nearly matched her eyes and the amethysts resting below the Valyrian steel flames of her crown. “You made us proud, what you did for our House.”

“It is only a tourney,” Rhaegar disagreed. He saw the truth in his father’s words, that a tourney could unite the people of the Realm, but he did not think his victory brought any great glory to House Targaryen. _I was playing the game of Summer knights, with its minimal consequences._

“I wasn’t speaking of the tourney. I was speaking of your choice, your Queen of Love and Beauty. Together, you and your sister will do great things for House Targaryen. I dared not say it before, but I would have been most disappointed if you had chosen another to court, say that Rykker girl, or worse, that manipulative little harlot from Oldtown,” said his mother, saving her hateful tone for Meredyth Hightower.

“If you had, I would have cut their pretty little faces,” Arya came to his side and whispered in jest, though Rhaegar wasn’t so sure. His sister always seemed to get what she wanted and he could imagine the terrible things he himself would to those who would have her.

“Your wedding, decisions must be made,” Queen Rhaenys interrupted the gentle kiss Arya laid upon his lips.

“The last day of this year. King’s Landing. In the godswood,” Arya did not hesitate to set her terms, steely in the conviction of her choices until Queen Rhaenys raised an eyebrow. “Forgive me Mother, I did not mean to…”

“No, there is nothing to forgive. A queen must be decisive in her decisions. We have always taught you that. I am glad to see you were listening,” said Queen Rhaenys.

“I would have guessed you would have chosen Dragonstone or even Winterfell,” Queen Daenerys mused, knowing Arya as well as Rhaegar. His sister had told him once, she dreamed of a wedding beneath a great weirwood on snow-covered ground. But it was the long summer without any signs of winter within sight.

“Yes, that is what I dreamed, but I am no longer a child. You permitted me the freedom to choose who I would be with. Now, I must do my duty, to our House and the Seven Kingdoms. It isn’t a wedding in a sept, but if we are married in the Red Keep’s godswood, the people will have their chance to see us, before or after,” Arya voiced her reasons with a smile and what Rhaegar thought was a taste of bitterness in her mouth. _She hates it. She would prefer a small wedding, without the lords and ladies of Westeros._ “Do you agree?”

“You know I do not care where or when we are wed, so long as it is within a year. I do not mean to wait forever,” Rhaegar swore. In truth, he never expected nor wanted a say in the details of his wedding. He always thought Arya or his mothers would decide who would attend, where they would sit at feast, and which few would stand in the godswood to bear witness.

“It’s settled then. Before the new year, you shall be wed here in King’s Landing, should everything go to plan,” their father said, implying he expected the matters of House Hightower and its alliance with the Most Devout to be resolved before then. “We plan to announce your betrothal and the wedding at the feast, unless you have reason to protest. No? Good, then it is done.”

“Now, if you would, spare some words for the archons and lords,” Queen Visenya commanded, compelling Rhaegar to turn his gaze to the dozens of Essosi waiting to speak with himself and Arya. “Do not worry, you will have some respite when the wheelhouses arrive.”

“Aye,” Rhaegar accepted her command and went with Arya to converse with House Targaryen’s Essosi subjects. It felt good to openly have Arya at his side, resting his hand on the small of her back, touching her warm skin within view of others. More than once, he found himself tempted to slip his hand a little further down, beneath her dress, but he always remembered what was decent and right.

Lady Mellario was the first of the Essosi to wish them well before insisting they visit the city of Norvos, to rest their eyes upon the Noyne and the Sinner’s Steps. Naezhar Zherak and Dahaz Karraq promised ships filled with Astapor and Yunkai’s finest treasures to be sailed to King’s Landing once they were wed. Illyrio Mopatis came last, greeting them after Domeno Tragar of Braavos promised to build a great war galley in Arya’s name. The Pentoshi was a clever man, though too clever for Rhaegar’s liking. His praise and promises were all meant to ingratiate himself with the future of House Targaryen, which did nothing but make Rhaegar rage in silence. _That fat fool will not live to see us wear our crowns, I swear it._

Lord Walter Whent and his ladywife, Shella, asked when they should expect a royal wedding and promised their attendance. Arya swore they would know before evenfall and thanked them for their kind words. Stannis Baratheon kept their interaction short and to the point, voicing his support before Lady Selyse fawned over Arya’s pretty amethyst necklace and the winter roses on her crown.

Lady Larra Blackmont told them she had held her own suspicions after catching them staring at one another at a previous feast. Rhaegar did not argue with the Dornishwoman, knowing her to be a truthful lady. Lord Tytos Blackwood followed Lady Larra, boasting of Rhaegar’s prowess on the list field and thanked him for the coin he had taken off Lord Ryam Roxton. Dacey Mormont warned Arya against relaxing her training with a sword just because he would be there to protect her. Rhaegar laughed at the notion, knowing Arya would never allow herself to lose all the skills she had attained.

After Ser Mychel Redfort and Lady Mya voiced their approval of Arya’s kiss in front of thousands, Rhaegar escorted his sister to their Arryn kin. Amanda compared their pairing to the great love stories told in various songs and books while Lord Harrold offered Rhaegar congratulations and praise for his chivalrous conduct throughout the King’s Tourney. Lady Sansa Arryn whispered in Arya’s ear, but Rhaegar did not hear it. His cousins, Jeyne and Roland, pestered him with questions regarding his practice for the joust and asked what it was like to ride against Ser Nigel Moore, a hero to many in the Vale.

Once they were free of the Arryns, Rhaegar found himself surrounded by the Starks and Tyrells. Lord Robb gave him a pat on the shoulder and warned him he did not care if he was the Prince of Dragonstone, he would have his head if he betrayed Arya. Rhaegar smiled and laughed, but he knew there was some truth in the threat. _I would never betray her._ Lord Willas counseled honesty with Arya before Benjen Stark advised him to never take any day with Arya for granted. “Time is a precious thing. I know it better than most. Never take her or the time you share with her for granted. Most of my life, I spent without my ladywife. Not a day goes by where I do not think what may have been had I not returned south and that is why I cherish every moment we have left together,” the former First Ranger of the Night’s Watch said. Rhaegar took his words to heart, for the few days spent in his life without Arya were not fond memories.

When Arya finally escaped the clutches of Margaery Stark, Allyria Tyrell, and Ashara Stark, the Martells and Baratheons came forth. Arya conversed with her namesake and Princess Arianne, informing them how long they had been hiding their secret. Lord Edric Dayne inquired where Rhaegar managed to find his armor and Ser Gendry advised they remain at the dais in the Great Hall for as long as they could, or else find themselves overwhelmed by a hundred scheming lords and ladies.

“Prince Rhaegar. Princess Arya. It is time,” Jaren Redfort sought them out while they listened to Sers Myles Mooton and Richard Lonmouth compare Arya’s crowning to their mother’s. Rhaegar learned just how displeased their grandfather was with their father and how different things were before they were born. Their telling of events only bolstered Rhaegar’s feelings of gratitude.

“So it is. Sers, forgive us,” said Rhaegar before taking his leave of the knights. With Arya on his arm, Rhaegar followed his father’s squire through the maze of loyalists and out into the small field that laid between the royal tent and the jousting arena. More than a dozen great wheelhouses and dozens of horses were waiting for them. Sunset was still some hours away, but they needed to be off so the people of King’s Landing could lay eyes upon the Champion of the King’s Tourney and the Queen of Love and Beauty before all forms of chaos ensued in the streets.

Rhaegar spied his black destrier and Arya’s white mare near the head of the column, waiting behind fifty or more soldiers of their household guard. While he had his chance with so few around to take notice, Rhaegar made sure to savor the feeling of Arya’s ass in his hands as he lifted her onto her saddle. She feigned her displeasure with narrowed eyes and pursed lips for a moment, but her act faltered when he laid a kiss upon her hand.

They sat there and waited until the royal tent was emptied, every wheelhouse filled, and every horse mounted. Their father rode just ahead of them with Barristan Selmy and Arthur Dayne flanking him. Jaren Redfort and Cregard Mormont rode close behind the King and his Kingsguard, followed by the two knights of the household guard who were just ahead of Rhaegar and Arya. Eddard and Jon fell in behind them, followed by Aegon and Nymeria.

“He will be fine,” Arya assured him as they rode out from the Unsullied encampment. She had caught him peaking over his shoulder, wondering how Aegon had taken his defeat. _Will he? I am not so sure. He looks distraught, like someone has taken Nymeria from him. I must speak with him again._

“There are so many of them. I cannot remember it ever being like this,” Arya said as the column moved through the Velaryon encampment. Thousands waited, lining the road that would see them through the tourney grounds. The smallfolk packed together, shoulder to shoulder at the edge of the road. Knights and men-at-arms from across the Seven Kingdoms stood amongst the tents, watching them from afar.

“It was never like this,” Rhaegar assured her. He remembered every King’s Tourney in his life and never had the smallfolk stayed behind in such numbers to see them off. Frost and Snowstorm caught up to them as they passed the banners of Houses Celtigar and Staunton. More than once, their direwolves bared their teeth at those who dared approach. There were only so many Unsullied and gold cloaks, it was an impossibility to form a shield wall on either side of the road from the arena to the outskirts of the tourney grounds.

He had hoped the shouting of his name would cease, at least until they reached the King’s Gate, but Rhaegar discovered that was a fool’s hope. Men, women, children, it did not matter, for they all called his name and Arya’s as they passed. A bard beneath the three lances of House Gaunt sung of his bravery and triumphs, as if he had won many great battles of some war. One hundred yards further, before the grey and blue tents of House Rollingford, another bard sung the people a song of Arya’s beauty, purity, and heroism.

Rhaegar waved to those who called his name or waved first, mimicking his sister’s small gestures for the smallfolk. As he did so, he noticed dozens of children, most of them boys, weaving their way through the yellow tents of House Grandison, past the purple and white tents of House Swygert, and under the orange and blue banners of House Bolling. They kept up with the column as best they could, desperate not to lose sight of himself or the King, Rhaegar could not say.

“I see none of Lord Hightower’s knights,” Arya said lowly enough for only himself to hear. Rhaegar agreed as he scanned the tents beneath the smoke grey banners of Oldtown. He saw neither knights nor squires nor men-at-arms. There were other small encampments that appeared empty along their way, but Rhaegar wasn’t so sure this was a coincidence. _He does not trust his men to hide their displeasure._

“Never mind them, not this day,” Rhaegar told his sister, knowing no good would come of wasting a second’s thought on traitors’ misgivings.

The royal column had almost left the banners of the Reach behind them when Rhaegar spied Ser Gedmund Dunn and Ser Alynard Dunn amongst a dozen or more knights. Dressed in black and pink doublets suited for court, both brothers gave their nods of approval and raised two horns of ale to his victory. Rhaegar had befriended them on the third day.

“Friends of yours?” Arya asked.

“Aye,” he confirmed. Gedmund was only two years his senior and Alynard only four. It was easier befriending them than the others. Rhaegar did not attempt to befriend the older knights, knowing he would always question the sincerity of any bonds he had formed.

Marking the outskirts of the tourney grounds, Rhaegar recognized the green weeping willow of Ryger, the black plowman of Darry, the golden scales of Justman, and the waves of Butterwell. Every man and boy in service of Lord Tytos Blackwood stood outside their tents, underneath the black and red banners of Raventree Hall. Each of them raised their swords when Rhaegar’s father passed, proclaiming him the hero who saved the Realm. They said the same of his mothers when the wheelhouses rolled past. It was an unneeded show of loyalty, but Rhaegar was not surprised. The Blackwoods had greatly prospered after the war and Lord Tytos was not soon to forget it.

The onlookers lining their path thinned the further the royal column progressed through the camp until the tourney grounds were behind them. Soon enough, the children shadowing their flanks were all that remained, which interested their protective direwolves. More than once, Rhaegar heard Frost growl at the boys running along the trees to his right. Once or twice, Snowstorm sniffed in the air and perked her ears up at the girls running in the fields to their left. It was like that until the children tired, the woods thinned, and the road came alongside the Blackwater Rush.

River galleys and river runners were tied up along the first wharfs they passed, with only a handful of men left to protect them. The dozens of barges that ferried grain and wood downriver everyday were not so poorly protected. Some of them still held their wares. Sailors stood on the decks, guarding or offloading sacks of grain and bundles of wood meant for the city. The skiffs that fished the river and the fishermen’s ships that ventured out into the bay were left abandoned for the most part.

All of it seemed a strange sight to Rhaegar. Most days, fishermen, deckhands, merchants, and hundreds more walked the wharfs, but the tourney had changed that. Rhaegar knew if they rode further, on to the River Gate, they would come upon full docks with cogs, carracks, and galleys full of sailors offloading and onloading goods. From afar, he could see the tall masts of swan ships from the Summer Isles. Beyond the trading ships stood a cluttered forest of masts belonging to the Targaryen and Velaryon fleets tied off at the wharfs closest to the bay.

Three short hornblasts sounding from the ramparts shifted Rhaegar’s gaze from the Blackwater Rush to the walls of King’s Landing. The Targaryen banners fluttering at the head of the royal column were only two hundred yards from the King’s Gate. Soldiers and men of the City Watch tasked with protecting the gate could be seen hurrying to their posts along the battlements overlooking the fork in the riverroad. Black and red banners billowed in the wind over the gate’s watchtowers and a great Targaryen banner was hung from the ramparts just above the gate, reminding every visiting traveler who ruled King’s Landing.

Preferring a prettier sight than the merlons atop the walls, with helms and spears interspersed between them, Rhaegar laid his eyes on Arya. For much of the short journey, he stared and admired her beauty. The crown of blue roses resting upon her silver braids suited her. He wanted to reach out and touch the smooth, spiraling tendrils of hair framing her face, but he knew better than to ruin the careful work of his sister’s handmaidens. “What? What is it? Is there something on my face?” Arya asked when she noticed his admiration.

“No, you are perfect. It’s…It’s just, when we ride through that gate, all of them will know. They will see you and your crown and know you will be my queen,” Rhaegar said proudly, knowing it would be the greatest honor in his life. Somehow, he always felt she deserved even more than a crown prince or a king, but he could not say what that was.

“I suppose our kiss did not leave much doubt in the minds of the people, did it?” she laughed.

“No, no it did not,” Rhaegar agreed, sharing a smile with his love before looking ahead to the open King’s Gate. Just as the first riders passed underneath the battlements, the city’s bells rang out.

“Make way! Make way! Clear the square! Make way for the King!” Rhaegar heard the shouts from unseen guards within the city walls. Their brief respite was gone. Like the tourney grounds, Rhaegar presumed thousands would line the streets of King’s Landing, impatiently waiting to steal a glimpse of Arya in her white Essosi dress.

Beneath the King’s Gate, just feet from the gatehouse, waited the captain of the gate in his gold cloak. Ser Thoren Smallwood was a former ranger of the Night’s Watch, loyal only to Lord Commander Eddison Tollett and Rhaegar’s father. With him stood two lieutenants of the Targaryen household guard in their black armor and black-and-red cloaks. These commanders kept watchful eyes on their men and the thousands of smallfolk who had nearly overtaken the square.

They shouted his father’s name from the edge of the square, the fountains, the alleyways, the windows of homes, the odd balcony, the storefronts, and even the rooftops. Never had there been so many to welcome their return on the final day of the King’s Tourney. Rhaegar felt awed by the reception until the smallfolk began to shout and cry his own name instead of his father’s. _They shouldn’t…Father is still here, in the square. He is their King. He saved them, all of them. I have won nothing, only a tourney. If not Father’s name, shout Arya’s._

Rhaegar soon learned his thoughts did not matter, for the cheers and screaming of his name never ceased. Lowborn girls pointed and giggled, some blew kisses, and one even promised she could be his Queen of Love and Beauty. He pretended not to hear that and prayed Arya only heard the echo of her name ringing out through the square. It did not take long for the people to call out her name just as loudly and fervently as his own. They even started to cry out _Princess of Dragonstone, Crown Princess Arya, Queen Arya, Arya the Beautiful,_ and _Rhaegar’s Love._

Once the royal column escaped the clutches of the square, they discovered the King’s Gate was not the end of the fervor. Thousands and thousands lined either side of the street that followed the city walls until it curved right and climbed Visenya’s Hill. Rhaegar struggled to spy a window without a man, woman, or child hanging out, waving to them as they passed. Following his sister’s lead, he reciprocated their waves as the bells continued to ring.

“Viserion…,” Rhaegar murmured to himself when he tilted his head to the sky above the Dragonhall. Viserion’s gold and cream scales glimmered in the sunlight as he flew circles over the twelve towers that crowned Visenya’s Hill. Rhaegal and Drogon joined their roars to Viserion’s when they started their encirclement of the Dragonhall.

From Visenya’s Hill, Rhaegar cast his gaze upon the entirety of the city of King’s Landing. As their horses rounded the gardens and the great plaza before the Dragonhall, he listened to the music of the bells, mixed in with the cheers of the people. The bells rang out from every gate, every watchtower, every sept, the Dragonhall, the Dragonpit, and the Red Keep. Every soul in the city knew of their arrival and Rhaegar did not doubt more than half flocked to the royal procession’s path.

On their descent down Visenya’s Hill, Rhaegar and Arya shared a knowing look after they spied the masses gathered within the King’s Square. Tens of thousands were crammed into the square so tightly, Rhaegar wondered if they could breathe. All of it reminded him of his parents’ triumphant return from the war against the Night King and the White Walkers.

“They love you!” Rhaegar proudly shouted to his sister. Arya’s mare rode next to his destrier, but the square was so loud, he could hardly hear his own thoughts.

“This is madness!” she yelled with a cheerful laugh. _She is not wrong._ Even as they rode through the King’s Square, more Unsullied and more gold cloaks rushed forth to add their strength to the men struggling to keep the crowds at bay. More than one drunkard was knocked back by the black shield of the Unsullied or hit by the butt of a gold cloak’s spear. The sky was still blue, yet that did not stop the people from emptying casks of wine and barrels of ale. _The alehouses have already made their fortune and they still have the night before them._

With the King’s Square almost behind them, Rhaegar glanced over his shoulder when he heard Nymeria’s name on the lips of the smallfolk. It warmed his heart to learn they had not forgotten the Princess of Fyrestone. If it was in his power to do so, he would have asked his mothers to name Aegon a champion as well so his sister could be crowned beside Arya, but that was a step too far from tradition. There were many things in Westeros and Essos his parents had changed under their rule, but they were not careless with the traditions they set aside.

Nymeria’s beaming smile and laughter relieved some of the guilt weighing on Rhaegar’s shoulders, but the look on Aegon’s face returned the weight of it all. He looked lost, without purpose. His brother’s self-confidence was gone, replaced by self-doubt and defeat. _I must speak with him. I must make this right. I will train with him, every day until next year’s King’s Tourney if need be, so it can be he and Nymeria riding where we are._

Once the royal procession was through the King’s Square and trekking toward Aegon’s Hill, Rhaegar stared at Arya for as long as he dared. Paying only half a mind to the shopkeepers, washerwomen, cooks, innkeepers, whores, builders, dockhands, and children, he imagined their return to King’s Landing from Dragonstone, as husband and wife. Seeing her wave to the people, laughing at their displays of love and praise for her, Rhaegar knew she was born to be his queen. He had always known, but seeing it steeled the conviction in his belief.

Two shield walls consisting of some two hundred Unsullied lined the last stretch of cobblestone to the main gate of the Red Keep. Thousands more were gathered beneath the castle walls, mostly poor peasants from Flea Bottom. Most cheered Rhaegar and Arya’s names, but enough still voiced their approval of Dany’s act of charity. The boldest and perhaps most desperate of the poor begged for Rhaegar’s prize, as well as Aegon’s. Rhaegar only waved and smiled, knowing any attempt to inform them of his intent would be fruitless. The bells still rang from the Red Keep and the cheers of the masses would drown out his voice. _They will hear of it on the morrow, should they not drown themselves in ale_ , he thought as they passed through the gate, into the safety of the Red Keep.

He came to her room alone, knowing she was there. He could hear her laughter and the jesting voices of her Dothraki handmaidens. Within Arya’s solar, he found Snowstorm and Frost lying about the floor, too tired to lift their snouts and take notice of his presence. He ignored the direwolves as they ignored him and made his way to the bedchamber.

Seated in front of a looking glass set upon her dressing table, Arya whispered to her handmaidens. One combed the unbraided silver hair that tumbled down her back while the other minded her perfumes. Arya’s grey eyes caught him staring in the reflection. “Rhaegar! You wore my favorite doublet! We are almost finished here. I needed a bath and my perfumes, unless you would have me smell of horse at feast,” Arya said in her best Dothraki, not missing his choice of wardrobe.

After Eddard aided him in the removal of his armor, Rhaegar had set about carefully choosing his clothes for the final feast of the King’s Tourney to be held in the Great Hall of the Red Keep. On such grand occasions, with almost every lord of note and most of the newly appointed archons in attendance, he needed to wear the colors of House Targaryen. His chosen doublet was black of thread with the faintest dark-red dragons woven throughout the fabric. Rhaegar found his choices simple after that, selecting his finest leather boots along with a pair of black wool breeches.

“It matters naught to me if you smell like a stablegirl or a perfumed Lysene maid,” Rhaegar argued in his own broken Dothraki, as he approached to get a closer look at her dress. She had replaced her white Meereenese dress with a Westerosi dress of red silk and black Myrish lace, the preferred fashion of the Crownlands’ nobility. “Though, if I am being honest, I preferred the white dress.”

“Sizhi, Iwiqqi, that will be all,” Arya bid her handmaidens to take their leave. Without protest or hesitation, Sizhi and Iwiqqi were gone and out of sight. Arya dabbed the last bits of perfume upon her skin and rose from her seat to look upon his face again. Returning to the common tongue, she said, “I know you love my Essosi dresses, but I am afraid we must suffer a small sacrifice for the ladies of the Seven Kingdoms. Prudish as they are, I would prefer they not leave King’s Landing thinking me a Lysene whore. And besides, now that it is known I am to be your Crown Princess, is it not better I wear our House’s colors?”

“Aye, your reasons are sound,” Rhaegar admitted before leaning in to steal a kiss from her full lips. He savored the feeling of his tongue tasting hers as long as he could before they parted for air. “Those ladies who would think you a whore, fuck them.”

“I agree, but we cannot change how everyone thinks. Small appeasements must be made. Besides, I would prefer these crones and pious ladies think me a whore than demand all our heads be placed on spikes, no?” Arya added, reminding him the lords and ladies of Westeros were just as resistant to change as the nobility of Essos.

“You are beautiful, you know? The most beautiful woman in the Realm,” Rhaegar said as he ignored the handmaidens’ efforts, running his fingers through her silver mane.

“I know. You are as well, handsome I mean,” Arya corrected herself, noticing the funny look he gave her. With her fingers beginning to run through his own hair, she continued, “I think I prefer it this way. I have always liked your curls, but something is different when you have it tied up like this. You look…older. Not too old, just right.”

“Shall we? Father and Mothers are waiting,” Rhaegar suggested, extending an arm for his sister to take. Arya obliged, entwining her arm with his as they departed her chambers. Frost and Snowstorm eventually stirred from their slumber and padded into the corridor behind them.

From the royal quarters, Rhaegar and Arya descended the spiraling stairs within Maegor’s Holdfast with the rest of their family. The holdfast was filled with a silence broken only by their own footsteps or the odd servant seeing to their duties. Dozens of guards were posted throughout the castle’s corridors and none of them so much as breathed when they passed. Rhaegar thought he might see one or two of the guests that were provided quarters within Maegor’s Holdfast. They were gone, waiting for them in the Great Hall.

Ser Barristan Selmy led them out into the lower bailey and it was more of the same, empty and silent. Rhaegar admired the golden sky above King’s Landing and how its many hues painted the Red Keep’s stones in a different light. The castle looked more rose-gold than red, but it would not last much longer. The sun was falling in the west, hiding behind Maegor’s Holdfast.

Through the godswood, the knights of the Kingsguard led them underneath the elms, alders, and black cottonwoods. Midnite and Jonquil led the youngest direwolves away from their procession. The small pack ran in and out of the trees, happy to have grass and dirt beneath their paws instead of the castle’s marbled floors. It took Aemon’s calls and Naerys’ gentle coaxing for the wild wolves to return to them before they reached one of the godswood’s western gates.

With the godswood at their backs, the royal family crossed the narrow alley of sorts that laid between the castle’s main keep and the grey stone walls that protected the godswood. Once inside the keep, Rhaegar found himself reacquainted with the sounds of a lively castle. The final feast of the King’s Tourney was always the most taxing night of the year for the Red Keep’s cooks and kitchen servants. The Great Hall always overflowed with lords and ladies from across all Seven Kingdoms. The various small halls throughout the keep were more of the same, brimming with lesser lords and knights. Servants marched to and from the kitchens with flagons of wine, plates of fruits and sweets, and every pie one could hope for.

When they reached the royal entrance to the Great Hall, Rhaegar’s brothers and sisters moved to the foreground, listening for the heralds to call their names. One by one, they disappeared through the doorway, away to their tables. Soon enough, they heard Aegon and Nymeria’s names, then Jon and Dany’s, and finally Eddard and Senya’s. Moments after Eddard and Senya were gone, Rhaegar heard his own name after Arya’s.

Following his sibling’s footsteps, Rhaegar led Arya past the sentries, into the Great Hall. Thousands stood at their tables and the galleries above, applauding them as they made their way to the dais. It felt strange, turning for the dais and not his siblings’ table amongst the nobility, but the tourney’s champions always had a seat on the dais.

Barth Burley, the melee’s champion, stood at the end of the dais in his northern garb, whispering into Arsa Whitehill’s ear. Ser Jorah Mormont stood beside them with his arms crossed over his green doublet, suspiciously eyeing every lord within the hall, while Varys paid only a few certain lords mind. Unlike the knight of Bear Island, the Spider masked his suspicions with a harmless face, but only the fools believed the Master of Whispers harmless, for all their secrets were scribed onto some piece of parchment hidden up his violet sleeves.

Lords Yohn Royce and Ardrian Celtigar stood proudly with their ladywives on their arms. Royce treated Rhaegar with a stern, respectful nod, much like he always did. The Master of Coin on the other hand greeted Rhaegar and Arya with a gleeful smile, knowing their union ensured a great deal of coin would be spent this night and a great deal of taxes would be collected. Lord Monford, in his sea-green doublet, gave them a proud, grandfatherly glance as they passed him and the empty seats beside him by.

Finally reaching their seats, Rhaegar and Arya came to stand beside Jon and Dany. Lords Davos Seaworth and Stannis Baratheon filled out the rest of the dais with Ladies Marya and Selyse at their side. Lady Missandei and Grey Worm occupied the end of the great table with Grand Maester Pylos, who usually kept to himself at feast. _Likely, he is plotting the next book…No, books he will read, as is Aemon, no doubt._

Across the first dancefloor, the Great Houses of Westeros were seated at five of the seven longtables with their sworn Houses seated further down the hall. Archons and emissaries from the Essosi cities flanked their Westerosi counterparts at the tables situated beneath the nearest galleries on either side. Because their numbers were so few, the Essosi found Westerosi lords seated at the far ends of their longtables.

The Lannisters and Greyjoys were placed at the second furthest table to Rhaegar’s left, trying their best to wear their most amicable faces. Jaime Lannister hid his known contempt for the Ironborn well while his westermen stared daggers at the men standing across their table. Rhaegar hoped the former reavers would conduct themselves in a peaceful manner for one more night, but he had his doubts when he laid his eyes on Lady Yara Greyjoy. She looked tired of the western lords and their insults.

Princess Arianne Martell stood shoulder to shoulder with Lord Jaime Lannister in her sunset orange Dornish dress that caught the eyes of every lord. Lord Edric Dayne stood behind her in a lilac doublet, reminding their children to stay quiet as the herald recited Queen Rhaella’s titles. Lord Willas Tyrell in his green and gold doublet shared the table with the Martells. Lady Allyria smiled at Rhaegar when their eyes met before she was forced to silence her daughter, Serena.

Aegon and Eddard occupied the ends of the fourth longtable placed at the center of the Great Hall. Nymeria appeared to whisper words of comfort to Aegon, but he still appeared distraught while Eddard only revealed the smallest of smiles as their grandmothers took their places upon the dais. Rhaegar eyed the rest of his brothers and sisters and found they were in a merry mood, along with his Velaryon cousins. _If I do not get the chance to speak with him and Nymeria cannot raise his spirits, I pray Corlys gets him drunk on some good northern ale._

Next to his siblings table stood Rhaegar’s Stark and Baratheon kin. His northern cousins had acclimated themselves well at court, yet Alys Stark still looked at everything around her with wonder and awe. The Great Hall of the Red Keep seemed a dream to her, Rhaegar guessed as he watched her eyes drink in the pageantry of the feast. Neither Jocelyn Stark nor Argella Baratheon shared such love of feasts and court. Their little faces were wracked with boredom. _They will scurry off to the godswood before long._

When the herald finally started on their Graces’ titles, Rhaegar noticed Lady Sansa Arryn to be the only one at her table eyeing the lords and ladies standing behind her. _She is searching for disloyal faces_ , Rhaegar thought as he considered his aunt’s past. His mother had warned him more than once to never underestimate his aunt’s skill at the game of thrones, for she had learned from its most treacherous player, Lord Petyr Baelish.

“What are you smirking at?” Rhaegar whispered in Arya’s ear after catching a mischievous, almost evil smirk on her lips.

“Their disappointed faces…all of them. Look,” Arya whispered back. Rhaegar saw hundreds of faces, but none of them looked disappointed. He searched and searched, but did not see what Arya saw. When he turned to her for the truth, she continued, “All of those girls, some of them are even my friends. They used to look at you with the smallest sliver of hope in their eyes. And now, it is gone. They know you are mine, as I am yours.”

“My lords! My ladies! This tourney is near its end, it pains me to say. Some of you have travelled from as far as the Shadow Tower and others have sailed from as far as Qarth. It may be many years before I have the honor of breaking bread with you, so let us savor this moment and celebrate this King’s Tourney. Let us celebrate the lasting peace that has endured for many years, a peace that some would see undone. Let this night remind the enemies of the Realm and its people, the Iron Throne and the noble Houses are united as one. Now, House Targaryen offers you the meat and mead of the Red Keep,” Rhaegar’s father bellowed before raising his cup of wine. Rhaegar smirked to himself as he lifted his own cup with the rest of hall, knowing his father preferred short speeches or none at all. _Words are wind_ , he was always reminded. “Let us drink, to our champion of the melee, Barth of House Burley! To our champion of the archery, Princess Daenerys of House Targaryen! And to our champion of the joust, Prince Rhaegar of House Targaryen!”

Rhaegar flinched at hearing his own name. He waited for the others to echo his name and finish their cups before he sipped from his own. Lord Tytos’ blackberry wine tasted sweet enough, but it was good northern ale he sought. The cellars of the Red Keep and Dragonstone were always stocked with barrels of it, sent from Lord Wyman of White Harbor, but Rhaegar’s uncle and all his bannerman had brought dozens of dark ales he had never tasted before and would never taste again for many years.

After the toast to the tourney champions, the King and Queens took their seats. The Great Hall followed suit with every lord, lady, and knight taking their seats around the longtables. Hardly a moment passed before kitchen servants came forth, filling out the tables with plates of meat, vegetable, fruit, cheese, fish, fowl, and bread one could imagine. They served Arya a plate of peppered Venison from the Kingswood with some chicken, dragon peppers, boiled carrots, green beans, and olives, as well as honeyfingers from Tyrosh.

Between them, the servants laid out plates of roasted ribs, some lemoncakes, figs and cherries, apple tarts and peaches, a goose, pigeon pie, and crabs and lobster, should they like. Rhaegar was served with roasted boar, a little peppered heron, jellied black bread, and a healthy assortment of beans and peas. All of it suited his empty stomach well, as a company of firedancers took to the dancefloor, entertaining a third of the Great Hall.

Beyond the first longtables, Rhaegar glimpsed a Tyroshi juggling butcher’s knives like they were oranges. Every time he looked up from his plate, the Tyroshi added another knife. Caring not to see a man lose his finger or worse, Rhaegar chose to ignore to Tyroshi until he was gone and instead, looked to the furthest dancefloor at the end of the hall. There, he saw six beautiful Lysene girls dancing to some foreign song played by a harpist. The Lyseni were of no interest to him, like the rest of entertainment.

“I miss it. I do not like it up here,” Arya said when she caught him staring at their brothers and sisters. He wanted to be there, listening to Aegon’s drunken boasts, arguing battle tactics with Eddard, learning some small piece of history from Aemon, enjoying Lya’s songs, laughing at Nymeria’s clever japes, and hearing Senya tell her tale of riding Stormfyre through a storm off Driftmark.

“Aye,” Rhaegar agreed, laying his hand over Arya’s to comfort her and himself.

“I would not worry. It will be many years before you two are compelled to sit here on this dais, if I have anything to say about it,” Queen Rhaenys assured them after overhearing their complaint. “Now, I will have your honesty. When did this begin?”

“Two years, six moons, and three days ago,” Arya said without delay. “Our first kiss. It was in the royal gardens, at the cliffs, underneath a lemon tree. I made him come with me to the godswood after that and promise we would be together. I was a silly girl then, I know, but…”

“No, there is nothing silly about it, my daughter,” Queen Rhaenys corrected Arya with the sternest of looks. “I still remember my first kiss. It was in the Water Gardens, when your uncle and I were fostered at Sunspear. If there was a heart tree to be found there, I might have taken him there and made him say some vows, not that it mattered…He remained true, but you know the rest,” their mother finished with a pained smile.

“Did you make Father swear any vows after your first kiss?” Arya asked. Rhaegar wished she had not. He did not like to think of his parents’ kisses.

“Astapor…,” Queen Rhaenys said, smiling to herself. Rhaegar guessed she was recollecting memories of a city he nor any of his siblings could recall. “Your father and I agreed to wed before our first kiss. It may sound rather dull, but your father’s proposal was sweet and beautiful in its own unique way, even if Visenya spoke the words first. In truth, he promised me the world and more. He promised me a family, children, power, revenge, and his love and devotion. I presume my dutiful son promised more or less the same.”

“He did,” Arya spoke for him before pecking her lips on his cheek. He was sure she did it just because she finally could.

Dany overheard their conversation and said, “You made Rhaegar promise to choose you for his queen long before then. Many times, he promised. I remember.”

“My Lords and Ladies! Good Sers. Archons and Magisters from the east. Princess Arianne,” Queen Daenerys addressed the hall, acknowledging House Martell’s unique status amongst the rest of the Houses. The firedancers were gone and everyone turned to the dais again, forgetting their supper and conversations. “My sons do not lack for coin, but the lowborn of the Seven Kingdoms lack for coin and food. They have decided to follow their sister’s example. Prince Aegon has promised his winnings to the wandering septons of the Riverlands and the Silent Sisters for the good work they do. And Prince Rhaegar has promised half his winnings to feed the poor of this city and half to the wandering septons of the Crownlands. I pray in this time of prosperity, you noble lords and ladies remember your smallfolk. We must not forget there are those who lack much that we take for granted.”

“Listen to them, applauding and cheering,” Queen Rhaenys said bitterly with contempt for half the hall before them. “How many of them do you think will follow their princes’ example? Half? A third? I say a fifth, though I suspect that is even too generous for this lot. Mind you, they will not hesitate to show their generosity at your wedding. They fear our House more than they fear or care for the smallfolk. A terrible thing to say, yes, but it is the truth. Though I must admit, my son, if I am being truthful, I am glad for it. I will have their fear and respect of the Iron Throne before their charitable hearts. A queen can only ask so much of her people.”

“And before song and dance can begin, it is my honor as a queen and a mother to announce the betrothal of my son, Prince Rhaegar, to his sister, Princess Arya. A royal wedding shall be held on the final day of this year, with a ceremony in the godswood and a grand feast in this very hall. I know many of you must return to your keeps, so far away, but those here who are able are invited to attend. Together, I know Prince Rhaegar and Princess Arya will rule Dragonstone fair and justly. And when the time should come, they will rule these Seven Kingdoms of Westeros and the lands of Essos far better than myself or my husband or my fellow queens,” Rhaegar’s mother finished her speech, drawing all the eyes in the hall to himself and Arya. He stood from his seat with his twin sister and gave a slight bow of gratitude to his mother, then another to the applauding highborn.

“Will you join me?” Arya inquired, rising from her chair with an offered hand. She was finished with her supper, as was he, and the dancefloor was beginning to fill.

“Gladly,” said Rhaegar, quickly taking his sister’s hand to follow her onto the dancefloor. Jon and Dany followed them, joining countless other pairs. Most were already wed, some were betrothed, a few were lovers, and the others, Rhaegar did not know.

“Naerys and her Dragonknight…I pray their song isn’t as tragic as this one,” said Arya, nodding toward their brother and sister across the dancefloor as they stepped to the love song. The singer’s voice was full of cheer, telling of Naerys’ love for the brother she could not have. The sad and mournful ending was yet to come.

“Their song will be a happy one, with a marriage and children and a castle they can share together,” Rhaegar promised his sister as she rested her head against his chest for a few fleeting moments before he spun her around again. “As will ours.”

“I love you,” she whispered against his lips. Rhaegar meant to tell her the same, but she stole his lips before half the Realm just as she did in the jousting arena. This kiss felt more intimate. They were each more patient and steadier in their teasing of the other’s lips. It felt as if they were alone, with everyone else around them distracted by the spectacle of a royal feast in the Great Hall, but that was not true. He knew half the men inside the hall had eyes for Arya, in her elegant dress.

“And I love you. For one night, this night, you are a queen. My queen,” he whispered when their lips finally parted. Her smile meant everything as he drank in the beauty of her storm grey eyes, her perfectly full lips, and her silver braid that was partially obscured by the crown of blue winter roses resting atop her head.

For the first time, Rhaegar felt truly worthy of being his father’s heir. Never had he felt that before. He was always going to be the son of the Realm’s greatest king. The heir to the hero who had given his life to save the realms of men. Not until he danced with Arya, his Arya, with a crown upon her head, did he think himself capable of one day ruling a kingdom.

“Well then,” Arya replied with a mischievous smirk. She glanced over her shoulders to make sure no one was close enough to listen before she continued, “A queen does not flee from her king’s bed before dawn. She stays there, lying asleep until her king wakes her to make love to her all over again.”

“I want to, I do. But this is not Dragonstone, Arya. If rumors were to spread…What they would say about you…Before we are wed…,” said Rhaegar. As much as it pained him, he told her the truth. He reached for any excuse he could think of for her to stay in his bed, but he couldn’t grasp one. If word were to spread they had shared a bed before they were wed, things would be said of Arya that he was not willing to tolerate.

“Let them say it! I do not care,” she argued in a quiet, fiery tone.

“Arya…,” he said, trying to dissuade her from the course she was setting them on.

“Sizhi and Iwiqqi are loyal to me. They would never betray my trust, not even to the other handmaidens. If it eases your mind, I will sneak through the secret passages. It will take me some time and effort to go from your chambers to mine own, but I will do that for you,” Arya promised, breaking him with her smile. _Curse her. She knows I cannot refuse her. Not when she looks like this._

“Fine, I surrender. We will have it your way, only you will not be sneaking away through the hidden passages. You will go out my door, down the corridor, and to your own chambers…after the sun has long risen and the castle’s servants are preoccupied spying on someone else. And I will not have Snowstorm lying outside my chambers. She will stay in the solar with Frost. We cannot allow those two to give us away so easily,” Rhaegar decided before kissing Arya’s lips. He intended to dance with her for the rest of the night until someone bold enough and familiar to them stole her away for a song.

**Princess Nymeria Targaryen**

Corlys let her go, taking Melyssa Rykker for his new dancing partner. Nymeria searched the dancefloor for another, but the knights and sons of the noble houses were taken. Left to dance by herself, she fled the dancefloor, returning to her place at Aegon’s side.

She found her brother how she had left him, bitter, distraught, lost, and even depressed. Nymeria hated seeing him like this. _It is all my fault. I should never have asked for that stupid crown. If I had known…_ All her begging for Aegon to join her on the dancefloor was futile. He refused and refused until Corlys Velaryon took his place, promising to protect her from the lordlings who would attempt to court her.

“I hate seeing you like this,” Nymeria complained when Aegon said nothing.

“It should have been you,” said Aegon. She did not understand until she followed his gaze to find Arya dancing with Rhaegar. Nymeria envied her sister, for her crown of blue winter roses was beautiful, but her envy was not going to ruin her night.

“I do not care. You must know that. I would not care if it was a crown of rubies or sapphires or diamonds. It would have been nice, yes, but if not me, better it is Arya wearing it than someone who is not us,” Nymeria tried her most soothing voice, but it had no effect on Aegon. He only tensed at her touch and the sound of her voice. There was a glimmer of pure rage in his eyes. _He hates himself…for this?_

“I failed you. I had him! I had him and I lost!” Aegon almost shouted. Nymeria felt compelled to make sure no one saw Aegon’s outburst. She considered herself and him fortunate, for there were many distractions within the Great Hall demanding everyone’s attention elsewhere.

“You lost a tourney, the King’s Tourney no less. There is no shame in that,” she replied, hoping Aegon would see reason. He did not. Instead, he huffed and persisted with his own self-hatred. “You still have me. That is not nothing, is it? Come, dance with me and forget this silly crown. It means nothing to me, not truly.”

“You say that, but…,” Aegon started, but held his tongue when the songs ended. The bards went silent, the harpist abandoned his instrument, and the couples on the dancefloor returned to their seats. Nymeria did not understand why until she saw her parents standing from their seats on the dais, preparing to make some announcement or speech she was not privy to.

“My lords! With so many of you here, we thought it appropriate to tell you of our most recent plans for the future of the Realm. Within the next six moons, we will begin to lay the foundations of four new castles. The first of these castles will be built along the Ocean Road, between Old Oak and Highgarden. It shall go to my son, Prince Aemon, and my daughter, Princess Naerys,” Queen Daenerys stunned Nymeria and half the hall. Once the shock of the news passed, she turned to Naerys, who was seated right beside her. Nymeria added her applause to the rest of the hall. “Good Lady Arwyn of House Oakheart and Lord Willas of House Tyrell have our thanks and gratitude for their understanding.”

“You are going to rule your own castle!” Nymeria told her sister, though she was not sure Naerys quite understood the news. She looked confused and overwhelmed until Aemon whispered something in her ear to make her smile.

“Another castle will stand on the southwestern shores of the God’s Eye, near the river. Lord Walton of House Whent and Lord Edmure of House Tully, you were most gracious and wise with your counsel,” Queen Rhaenys announced for all to hear, including the dozens of lords and ladies leaning over the balustrades in the galleries. “This castle shall be ruled by my son, Prince Valarr, and my daughter, Princess Daenys.” _They plan to have a castle in every kingdom._

“Valarr! Daenys!” Nymeria cheered happily for her siblings.

“A third castle will be built in the mountains west of Coldwater Burn. My son, Prince Brandon, and my daughter, Princess Sansa, will rule this castle and its attendant lands,” Queen Visenya informed them once the applause for Valarr and Daenys had died away. Nymeria looked to her siblings across the table, unsure how they would react. Sansa seemed nervous and overwhelmed while Brandon beamed with joy, knowing he would rule his own keep. “Lord Royce, Lord Harrold, House Targaryen will forever be grateful to you and your Houses.” _Who will the fourth castle go to? Benjen? Edric? Daemon? Aeryn? Rickard?_

“My son, Prince Rickard, will inherit the last castle we intend to build in Westeros. His seat will lie west of Castamere, along the coast. Lord Jaime, Lord Bronn, House Targaryen will be forever indebted to you for these gifted lands,” the King announced, surprising everyone at the table, especially Rickard. Nymeria knew her brother never expected a keep of his own. Her father waited for the congratulations to end before he continued, “The Sealord’s Palace sits empty in Braavos. When he is of age and capable of ruling, my son, Prince Aeryn, will take the palace for his seat. I trust he will decide a new, proper name for it. House Targaryen’s manse in Pentos shall go to Prince Benjen. My son, Prince Daemon, shall inherit our manse in Lys. The manse in Tyrosh shall go to my son, Prince Edric, until a proper palace that befits his rank is completed.”

“Daemon and Benjen will not get a palace?” Naerys whispered with concern, likely thinking their brothers had done something to earn a lesser seat.

“Do you not remember the manses in Pentos and Lys? They practically are palaces,” said Nymeria, recalling threads of memories she was so fond of. _At least that is what I remember. Mayhaps I was so little then, everything seemed a great palace or castle._

“My lords, I assume some of you find this news concerning. Allow me to relieve you of those concerns. My sons and daughters will rule these castles and their modest lands, but they will not interfere with the lords paramount and their rule over the Houses sworn to them. We have made the same assurances to Lords Arryn, Tully, Lannister, and Tyrell, as were given to Lords Stark, Baratheon, and Princess Arianne,” Queen Visenya addressed the skeptical faces within the Great Hall, of whom Nymeria was sure there were many.

“As for my sons who will inherit seats across the Narrow Sea, they shall rule their cities and the attendant lands. When they come of age and claim their seats, every archon will remain, as a Hand to the Prince, if you will. The councils of magisters will remain as well, to serve as my sons’ small councils of sorts. Should any wish to voice their concerns, we will hear it on the morrow,” Queen Rhaenys announced, carefully eyeing the tables on either end of the hall. Nymeria looked for the archons and emissaries from Braavos, Pentos, Tyrosh, and Lys. None of them seemed surprised, which stood to reason her parents informed them beforehand. “Now, let us resume this feast and celebrate what remains of the King’s Tourney.” _Will any of them be so bold as to protest on the morrow? I think not. They will be wasting their breath if they so choose. Father and Mothers would not announce such plans and reverse their course of action on account of some bitter little lords._

“Did you know of this?” Nymeria turned to Aegon, wondering if their parents had confided in him.

“No,” Aegon grumbled, still drowning in his own shame and self-hatred.

“We did,” Arya answered for herself and Rhaegar when Nymeria turned to her older brother and sister. “They did not mean to tell us either, I assure you. Rhaegar heard something in passing and asked Father what he meant by more castles. Rhaegar tried to withstand my questioning when I had my own suspicions. I eventually pried the truth from his lips, though he did not surrender his secrets for lack of trying.”

“Well, it is a most welcome surprise. You will be within a day’s flight from Fyrestone. Have you given any thought to a name yet, sister?” Nymeria asked Naerys.

“A name?” said Naerys with a furrowed brow and confusion in her violet eyes.

“Yes, a name. Castles must have names. Father and Mothers allowed Aegon and I to choose the name of our castle,” Nymeria said as she imagined what Fyrestone would look like. The builders and maesters who designed her castle had provided her the plans and drawings. Hardly a moon passed when she did not return to the drawings and stare at the water gardens drawn on the parchment, dreaming of her future with Aegon. _There will lemon and orange trees. Fireplums and olives. And a view of the Summer Sea…_

“No…Aemon will know a proper name for it. A name that means something to our House and its history,” Naerys replied.

“We will decide on one, together. Besides, it will be many years before it is near completion. Fifteen years I would say, at least,” Aemon assured them. Nymeria had no reason to doubt her brother, knowing he had likely read more than one book on the construction of castles.

“The name can wait, but I would counsel you to have your say in the design. Aegon and I were fortunate enough to decide on the layout of our chambers, the main keep, and other minor details with respect to the water gardens,” Nymeria added.

“We will remember it,” Aemon accepted her counsel in a hurried tone before almost leaping from his chair to offer Naerys his hand. “May I have another dance?”

Naerys gladly accepted Aemon invitation and followed him to the dancefloor. Rhaegar and Arya went with them, as did Jon and Dany. In a matter of seconds, Nymeria found herself alone, with only Aegon and this third horn of ale. Even her youngest siblings were gone from the table. Lya and Rhae danced near the singers, Torrhen and Allyria went to sit with their Stark and Arryn cousins, and Alysanne and Vaella were away at the Tyrell table.

Nymeria wanted to feel sympathy for Aegon and understand his pain, but all she felt was hate for him and his selfishness. He was ruining what was always supposed to be one of the greatest nights of the year. She had intended to walk the ramparts with him after the feast and watch the celebratory chaos ensuing out on the streets of King’s Landing. She wanted to stay up all through the night and watch the sun rise after they had pleased one another.

_I would have made love to you, you fool! This was supposed to be the greatest night of our lives and you ruined it! I didn’t care! I never cared about this tourney or some crown of roses! How can you not know that? We came into this world together! You know me better than anyone, even Dany or Arya or Senya. And you do not know this? You fool! You stupid fool!_

“May a father have a dance with his daughter?” Nymeria lifted her eyes from her untouched cup of Dornish wine at the sound of her father’s voice. She had wanted to shout and scream at her twin, but truthfully, she was closer to tears than rage. Too proud to shed tears in a Great Hall full of strangers, friends, and enemies, Nymeria took her father’s offered hand and left Aegon to his brooding.

“Aegon…Should I worry?” her father asked as they danced to _Flowers of Spring_ , a cheerful enough song.

“I am not sure. I have never seen him like this,” Nymeria found herself speaking truthfully after glimpsing Aegon minding only his ale. This was the first time she had ever seen him drink alone. Whether it was a feast or a normal night in the Red Keep, he was always the one encouraging their brothers and friends to drink more ale, sing more songs, and commit more foolish acts of mischief. Now, he refused the company of anyone who tried to lift his spirits.

“I will say something,” her father decided with a tame, unemotional look on his face. _He is cross with him. I can see it in his eyes._

“No!” Nymeria nearly spat, too hurry to ward off her father’s intervention. “You will only make things worse. I do not like seeing him like this, but if you were to…”

“What is it?” he asked, oblivious to Aegon’s doubts on where he stood with him.

“Aegon, he…Promise me you will not tell him I said this. Aegon, he does not always believe you trust him as you do Rhaegar or Jon or Eddard. He fears disappointing you more than anything in this world. He puts so much pressure on himself sometimes, I worry. Not as much as Jon puts on himself, but somedays, it can be worse for Aegon. I know he is impulsive and can be quick to temper, but he is brave and loyal. He is good and wiser than most give him credit for,” Nymeria answered her father, though she wasn’t so sure she should have revealed anything when her father closed his eyes. _Is he disappointed? Angry?_

“Then I have failed him, if he fears what I may think of him,” her father finally broke his momentary silence with a somberness in his voice that both touched and frightened Nymeria. She could not remember the last time she had heard her father sound so sad. _What do I say?_ “Every prince, every king, every man has his weaknesses and failings, but Aegon is just a boy. There is nothing he has done to shame himself or our House. Certainly, he has done things that disappoint me, but they are small, trivial matters. He is my son and I am proud of him, as I am proud of you.”

“Proud of me? What have I done to make you proud of me?” she asked, thinking her father was just paying her a kindness. _I haven’t won any tourneys or arranged a strategic betrothal. I have not negotiated trade terms with foreign lands or mastered the bow._

“Just being yourself, my daughter, Princess Nymeria of House Targaryen,” her father said so sweetly, but Nymeria could not help but remain skeptical of his words. He seemed to notice her mistrust before he continued, “What you did, today, before all the lords and ladies of the Seven Kingdoms. That crown of roses might have been sitting upon your head. I thought Aegon would win, the crowd thought Aegon would win, and I am certain you believed he would win as well. When Rhaegar was declared the champion and your sister was named the Queen of Love and Beauty, you did not pout or cry or scowl or show any trace of disappointment on your face. You smiled and took that crown to rest it upon your sister’s head. You were happy for her when you had every reason not to be. That is just one reason why I am proud of you, if you must have one.”

“Thank you,” she whispered against her father’s chest, hugging him as tightly as she did when she was a little girl. His words meant everything to her. She did not know she needed to hear them until she did. “You did not have to say all of that.”

“I did. You are my daughter and I love you,” her father disagreed in a steely, yet somehow soothing voice. Nymeria hugged him again when she saw the truth in his grey eyes staring down at her. “Your brother…keep an eye on him these next few days, until this tourney is done and half our guests are on their way back to their castles. I must right this wrong and spend more time with him, with you. Before you say anything, it is true. Do not deny it. I have allowed my duties as the King to precede my duties as a father. It isn’t fair and it isn’t right, to you or your brothers or your sisters.”

“Father, you are being ridiculous,” Nymeria tried to heal what she thought was her father’s broken heart. He almost seemed worse than Aegon, only her father hid his emotions all too well. She guessed no one could see it, but she could hear it in his voice and see it in his eyes. _The sorrow and regret is tearing at him._ “You spend more time with us than most fathers I have heard of…And they are not the King.”

“That is most kind of you, Nymeria. You have always had a gentle heart,” her father said as the song came to its end and the dancers began to exchange partners all around them. “I am afraid this is where I must leave you. Your mothers and I are to visit the small halls before the night is old and half the lords are too deep into their cups.”

“Wait,” begged Nymeria, pulling on her father’s wrist before he could retreat. “You are a great king, but you are an even greater father.” Instead of saying anything, her father left a kiss on her brow and nodded her a farewell.

“May the Lord of Winterfell have a dance with the Princess of Fyrestone?” Nymeria turned around to find her Stark uncle standing before her in his grey and brown northern doublet. Lady Margaery was stolen away by Lord Harrold Arryn, twirling around in her white and grey dress designed in the fashion of the Crownlands.

“He may,” Nymeria accepted Lord Robb Stark’s request and took his hand.

“I wanted to thank you and your sisters, for what you did for Alys. Those dresses, she loved them,” her uncle said as they spun around on the dancefloor. Nymeria glanced toward the children dancing behind the columns that supported the gallery above. Her cousin, Alys Stark, danced in one of her gifted southern dresses. She looked beautiful in the blue silk dress while one of Alyssa Farring’s younger brothers found the courage to ask her to dance. “I do not think she will ever want to return to Winterfell. She loves this city.”

“She will love Summerhall even more, dare I say. You still intend to join us, yes? Good. Do not worry, Uncle. Alys has only seen this city at its best, with the tourney grounds full and the Red Keep brimming with boys and girls from across the Realm. She will soon forget it all when we ride south and when we return, she will find this city to be a great disappointment. And if she insists on staying here, I will take her place. I long to see Winterfell again. I miss the godswood and its pools, the Wolfswood and its trails…,” Nymeria said as she started to dream of her swims in steaming black waters and her countless rides through the northern wilderness.

“I will hold you to that promise,” her uncle assured in his northern accent.

Nymeria danced with her uncle until the next song saw her paired with Kyle Rambton, a quiet and handsome brother to her friend, Alayne Rambton. After Kyle took his leave, one Dornishman after the other came to her, requesting a dance. There was Yoren Santagar and his broken, yet somehow charming nose. She danced with Loren Wyl while the bards sang one of their longest songs, allowing her partner’s clumsy feet to improve by the time they were done. After Loren, Malcolm Blackmont had her laughing at his clever japes while they danced to one of the bawdier songs sung at the feast. Maron Vaith was the last of the Dornishmen to dance with her, though she did not enjoy his company as much as she did the others. He kept his hands where they were supposed to be, but more than once she caught him staring at her breasts longer than she thought appropriate.

After she had tired from dancing, Nymeria returned to Aegon’s side, praying she would find him more cheerful with a belly full of ale. Instead, he cursed himself and his supposed failings as he had done so before. She begged him to dance with her, to join her on a walk along the ramparts, to lay underneath the trees of the godswood, and even to retire to their chambers for the night. Stubbornly, he refused all her attempts to save him from himself. “Go! Enjoy this feast. I will only disappoint and ruin your night,” he said with a noticeable lump weighing in his throat, so Nymeria did.

Before she left Aegon’s side, Nymeria found her direwolf sulking beneath the table, waiting for one last scrap of meat. She obliged Hura and fed her what remained of the peppered venison. That earned her a few unwanted licks on the cheek from the white furred direwolf before it scurried away with its packs, headed for the godswood.

With her direwolf gone from the hall and Aegon shutting the world away, Nymeria turned to her little sisters further down the table. Vaella and Alysanne allowed her to listen to their argument over who would have their first kiss this night, Viserra or Ashara. The debate was never resolved before the twins abandoned her for their friends from across the Crownlands and the Stormlands. Alyssa Farring, Erryka Cargyll, Desmera Whent, and Cassandra Darry kept her company for a time before a host of lordlings descended upon them.

Because her friends went with their suitors so willingly, Nymeria agreed to dance with the shy Jon Paege. He hardly spoke, only telling her the twining snakes of his sigil were nothing sinister, that he was named after her father, and finally, that she was beautiful. She thanked him and tried to coax more information from him, but Duncan Blackwood stole her away too soon.

Duncan was exciting and dangerous. His mischievous smile and charming tongue were attractive qualities she might have liked, but he was not Aegon and he knew better than to take things too far. Justin Blanetree, Willam Royce, Edgerran Marbrand, Matthew Waxley, and Jory Mollen all followed the son of Raventree Hall. Each of them came to her with warm smiles and courteous compliments, but each them seemed rather dull after her dance with Duncan Blackwood.

As her dance with Jory Mollen approached its end, Nymeria felt herself missing her brother. It was Aegon she always saved her last dance for and she could already feel her legs weakening from her time on the dancefloor. It was a relief to hear the singer’s voice fading away, but the feeling soon passed when she glanced at the table to find Aegon missing. _He left…without me._

“Princess Nymeria, may I have this dance,” Addam Hightower came to stand before her just a moment after she thanked Jory Mollen for their dance. Desperate to find a reason to refuse Addam, Nymeria glimpsed over his shoulders, searching for Aegon. Hundreds of faces crowded the Great Hall and none of them were her brother’s.

“Yes, you may,” Nymeria acquiesced, trying to mask her misgivings with her well-practiced courtly, polite voice.

The future heir to the Hightower took her hand and had his other on the small of her back as soon as she accepted his request. She thought him handsome with his blue eyes and short-cropped golden hair, but he was an enemy to her House. Nymeria also did not care for his persistent efforts to appear honorable at all times and his incessant pursuit of Arya. _Now that she is betrothed, he comes to me. Why?_

“You are the most beautiful thing I have seen in this world. Has anyone ever told you that, Princess?” Addam asked as they danced to _Seasons of My Love_.

“Yes, my brother, Aegon,” Nymeria replied bitterly, angry with Aegon for abandoning her and annoyed with Addam’s poor attempt to woo her.

“Ah, Prince Aegon…That was ill-done, that final joust. With respect to Princess Arya, that crown of roses was not hers to wear. You were the rightful Queen of Love and Beauty. If I had known Prince Aegon would…forget the basics of a joust on the precipice of victory, I would have donned my armor and entered the lists in your honor. A great travesty, I told my cousins. When I saw you take that crown and rest it upon Princess Arya’s head, I told them, that is the true Queen of Love and Beauty. Not only does she have a queenly beauty, but she also carries herself with a queen’s grace, I said,” Addam made his poor attempt at flattery. _Is this all that is required to get a girl in your bed in Oldtown? Flattery and lies?_

“You truly believe that? All of what you said? Then why have you pursued my sister for the past nine nights?” she inquired with a raised eyebrow.

“Because she was not taken and we were to be betrothed, until we were not. I would have been a decent husband to Princess Arya. Every night, I went to the royal sept and whispered seventy-seven prayers. I asked the gods for their blessings and a beautiful princess to wed. I thought they did not hear me when my father informed me the King had refused my great-grandfather’s proposal…But then I saw we were never meant to be wed, when I saw your sister crown. I was seeking the hand of the wrong princess,” Addam spoke sweetly and softly, but all Nymeria heard was the tongue of a snake.

“And you think that princess is me,” said Nymeria.

“I do,” he said so assuredly. _He sounds as if he almost believes that. This one is a well-practiced liar._

“I am betrothed to Aegon,” she reminded him.

“And, where is he? Off getting drunk, wallowing in his own self-pity? I have seen him turn you away thrice. If you were mine, I would never push you away. Only a fool would think to ignore your wishes. Forgive me for saying this my princess, but Prince Aegon is selfish and cruel. He punishes you for his own defeats. If I may say so, he is unworthy of your love and devotion,” Addam Hightower nearly whispered. There was such care in his voice, he might have been believed by half the naïve maids at court, but Nymeria was not one of them. She knew exactly who he was, what his intentions were, and she never forgot which House he belonged to. _You give yourself away, fighting away that smirk on your lips. You forget you are in King’s Landing, where this game is played at court every moment of every day._

“You do not know my brother and you do not know me. You think I would betray him because he fell in the King’s Tourney? You think me so vain, I would abandon him because of a crown of roses? And my brother does not pity himself. You are the fool if that is your judgement of his character. Just because you have stayed here for near a fortnight, it does not mean you know us,” Nymeria said with her most venomous tongue, unwillingly to maintain her House’s façade of neutrality with the Hightowers.

“I am sorry you feel that way, Nymeria,” said Addam with a somberness as they continued to dance to the end of the song. “I am just afraid…I am afraid your brother will only disappoint you. He may seem honorable, yes, but I know his kind. One way or another, he will betray your trust and break your heart. I tell you this because you have a gentle heart and you are worthy of more, so much more.”

“You…,” Nymeria started, ready to scream at him and ruin what remained of the feast until some sense of unease overwhelmed her. Something in her heart and in her bones felt wrong. She looked around the dancefloor, to the dais, to the tables in the middle of the hall, and to the full balconies above. Nothing seemed amiss until she listened to the bard sing the beginnings of _Jenny’s Song_ after the couples exchanged dancing partners. Addam did not let her go to dance with another. _He is keeping me here. Why?_

“One more dance,” Addam begged of her as she backed away from his arms. Nymeria only shook her head as she began to search for clues of his plot, but her eyes could see none. Instead, she listened to her heart and knew she had to find Aegon. When she made to flee the dancefloor, she felt Addam’s strong hand seize her wrist impulsively, confirming her suspicions.

“Unhand me!” she almost shouted, though no one seemed to notice. Addam Hightower was slow to loosen his grip on her wrist, so Nymeria yanked her arm free and lifted her skirts in her escape from the Great Hall. She did not know where first to begin her search, so she made for the corridor from whence her family entered the hall. _Hura and White Fang will find him for me._

“Nymeria! I am glad I found you. I tried to stop them, but he insisted. He said he did not feel well. I thought he was drunk, but something…,” Celia Sunglass stopped her in the corridor just outside the Great Hall. She was with Richard Staunton and Nymeria discerned from Celia’s disheveled brown hair that they had been kissing. Her friend spoke so quickly, Nymeria almost did not understand, until Celia noticed her confusion. “Aegon, he could barely stand or talk. Meredyth Hightower said she was helping him, but…I should have stopped them.”

“Thank you,” Nymeria said and brushed past her friends. She hurried down the corridor and retraced her steps from earlier in the night until she found herself between the walls of the godswood and the main keep. She could hear the celebrations in the streets even from deep inside the walls of the Red Keep. Songs and cheers echoed through the night air, but all she could hear was the sad verses of _Jenny’s Song_ ringing in her head. With only a few Unsullied sentries standing guard along the grey stone wall, Nymeria took off her shoes and ran for the closest entrance to the godswood.

“Hura! Hura! White Fang!” Nymeria called out, cutting through the serenity of the godswood until two flashes of white fur broke through the bushes, running to her side. “Aegon, where is he? Show me.”

Upon her command, both direwolves turned their snouts toward Maegor’s Holdfast, not the Maidenvault, where Meredyth might try and seduce Aegon into her own bed. _She means to have him in his bed! Our bed!_

The fury of it all was beginning to overwhelm Nymeria as she ran from the middle of the godswood to the gate that opened out into the lower bailey on the southern side of Maegor’s Holdfast. She stormed past several more Unsullied and men of the household guard, but she did not think to ask for their assistance. None of them dared to offer it either, seeing the pure rage on her face. _After I am done with Meredyth Hightower, I am going to feed her brother to Moonlight!_

Silence filled the hallways of the great holdfast, only to be disturbed by Nymeria’s own feet running down the hall with the direwolves’ paws padding along behind her. She glanced down every hallway, peered at every shadow, and spied through any open door in her search for Aegon. Her efforts yielded nothing until they reached the spiraling stairs that led all the way up to the highest floors of Maegor’s Holdfast. From the bottom steps, she heard the faintest, unfamiliar voice. Hura growled at the sound, so Nymeria raced as quickly as she could up the stairs.

“…this way…my room is this way,” Nymeria heard her brother’s voice, but he sounded so far away. “…I need…I will be fine…Nym…”

Faster and faster, Nymeria ran up the spiraling stairs, forgetting the aches and pains in her legs. More than once, she almost tripped, always needing to lift her skirt just a few inches more. The climb seemed further than she had ever remembered, as if she were climbing the Hightower in Oldtown and not her home in King’s Landing. The stairs were an endless barrier, keeping her from saving Aegon from falling into the Hightowers’ trap. _They planned this. They must have. Addam’s dance and his forwardness…All to distract me. To keep me away from Aegon while this evil bitch tries to seduce him._

“Here…this way…my chambers,” she heard his voice again with only three more floors to go. Somehow, Nymeria quickened her pace, running as fast as she could up the stone steps, past the torches hanging in sconces along the spiraling walls.

“Princess Nymeria…,” said one of the household guards posted at the entrance to royal apartments. Nymeria held her hand up and waved the guard off when she glimpsed Meredyth Hightower’s golden skirts disappearing into Aegon’s chambers. The guard might have said something else, but her ears fell deaf as she sprinted down her family’s hallway, lit by braziers and torches hanging from the walls.

When she reached Aegon’s door, Nymeria did not knock or call her brother’s name. Instead, she burst through the heavy oaken door into his empty solar, illuminated by sparing candlelight. Knowing what Meredyth intended, she marched through the solar to reach his bedchamber. There, she found Aegon lying on his back in their bed, barely conscious in his drunken state. Meredyth Hightower stood where Nymeria usually stood, removing her necklace to place it upon a small table where Nymeria placed her own jewelry. That small, insignificant action was not insignificant to Nymeria. It enraged her to the point where her heart felt ready to burst.

“You!” Nymeria stormed through the open doorway, causing Meredyth to jump in fright. “You evil bitch! I should kill you!” she screamed, charging at Meredyth. Nymeria had threw her foe against the wall with all of her strength after grabbing a handful of her perfect, golden hair. The fury took over as she hit Meredyth again and again and again, until Aegon called her name.

“Nymeria...Nymeria…Please…I don’t feel…I am…I am…,” Aegon called for her in pained whispers. He sounded as if he was injured in some way. It almost sounded like he was ready to cry, overcome by pain. When she reached his side, she found him sweating and cold to her touch. _None of this makes sense…_ “I feel…cold.”

“What did you do? What did you do?” Nymeria screamed at Meredyth Hightower. When she heard no answer, she glanced over her shoulder to find Meredyth crying and attempting to flee, only to be stopped by Hura and White Fang. Both direwolves surrounded her, pushing her into a corner.

“What did you do?” Nymeria thought she heard herself ask again, but it was her sister Arya who had burst into the bedchamber. Her sister moved even quicker than herself, brushing past the direwolves to hit Meredyth Hightower in the face. When the girl did not answer, Arya hit her again. “What did you do to my brother?” Arya demanded again, but Meredyth only cried from the pain.

“Arya, what do I do? He is so cold,” Nymeria asked as the tears began to stream down her own cheeks. She felt more scared than she had ever felt in her entire life. Aegon was not sick from his ale. She had never felt his skin feel so cold, not even on the coldest days of winter. He was the blood of the dragon, the same as she. _What have they done? What have they done to him? My Aegon._ “No! No! No! No! Stay awake! Keep your eyes on me! Keep your eyes on me! Arya!”

“What did you do? Tell me or I will kill you! I swear it!” Arya screamed at the cowering Hightower girl.

“It wasn’t supposed to be like this…He was only supposed to…,” Meredyth sobbed, barely able to say more than a few words.

“Arya! Help me! Please, Aegon, please! Stay awake! Arya, what do I do? What do I do? He is shaking! I can’t stop it!” Nymeria shouted hysterically as the panic seeped into her bones. She tried to hold him and keep him warm, but he only felt colder. Her brother was poisoned and she did not know what to do. The fear of losing him overwhelmed her thoughts. _What do I do? I cannot lose him. Do not leave me, Aegon. Do not leave me! Please! Stay!_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next chapter will pick up right where this one left off. We are finally here now. Targaryens and Hightowers will finally clash. Tried my best to make the jousts exciting, given many of you probably guessed the predictable outcomes. And so there is no misunderstanding, Aegon wasn't thinking to betray Nymeria, he felt too sick from the poison and was willing to take anyone's assistance. And no, Aegon is not a bastard. The title of the chapter just refers to the name people have given him.
> 
> As always, please leave any questions, criticisms, POV requests, or requests for more appearances/information on specific characters you think I have left out/ignored.
> 
> (ps. I've seen many mention the jon/daenerys discord. Is this worth the time? What is the point of it? Curious if any of you are on it)


	15. A Fallen Dragon

**Queen Daenerys Targaryen**

Of the twelve small halls within the main keep’s upper floors, Daenerys had visited half. It was a tradition that herself and her fellow rulers had agreed to establish upon their first King’s Tourney. Every year, she sought out the lords of lesser lands, the poorest landed knights, and the forgettable hedge knights that remained countless in number. She listened to them complain of their liege lords, spread rumors of their neighbors, and tell her of the lives of their smallfolk.

Daenerys preferred the Great Hall where she could watch her children enjoy what remained of the tourney, but she was still a queen and a queen needs her spies. The lords, ladies, and knights who filled the small halls were most often her greatest assets. There was Lady Meralyn Haigh, who informed her of the comings and goings at the Twins and the surrounding lands because she thought they were friends. Ser Illifer of the Red Fork had her to thank for his knighthood, though Lord Jonos Bracken did not know that of his hedge knight. Daenerys offered her spy at Stone Hedge a compliment and a farewell, knowing she must be short and courteous with him while feigning her unfamiliarity. Another of her informers she spoke with was Lord Tymond Lantell, who could hardly be considered the lord of anything, a fact Daenerys did not miss. Envy of the Westerlands’ greater Houses made Tymond a man easy to manipulate and use for her own purposes with regards to Casterly Rock.

After gracing the minor Houses with her presence, Daenerys returned to the Great Hall having planted the seeds for several secretive alliances. Ser Garland Clifton was a knight of Fair Isle she intended to speak with before he left the city. Daenerys thought him desperate to curry favor with the Iron Throne. _I will speak with him after I pay Marissa Sloane a visit. A few proper dresses will have that one singing all the tales I should wish to hear of the Mander._

“…Your Grace? Your Grace? The Manderlys?” Lady Margaery Stark pulled her from daze. Daenerys found herself standing along the balustrade, only half-listening when her eyes drifted from her friends to her own children below. From the gallery, she could see all of the Great Hall. Aemon and Naerys were sharing whispers and lustful looks over cups of Dornish red while Rickard and Rhaenyra sat across the table spoiling the direwolves with venison and roasted pork. Eddard and Jon moved from one girl to the other, always searching for their sisters between partners, hoping to be reunited with them.

“Yes, Wyllis and Wendel’s granddaughters, they do look most splendid,” said Daenerys, remembering the small northern girls who liked to follow Alys Stark everywhere she went. Almost all of the North’s daughters followed Alys around, just as the daughters of the Reach had followed Margaery around at court. _Alys is all Margaery and Jocelyn…she is all wolf, that one._

“I fear my Alys will refuse to wear all her dresses when we return home. It was bad enough whenever we visited White Harbor. Now? She is like to throw her wardrobe out the windows and demand more southern dresses,” Margaery admitted with some laughter in her voice. Daenerys wondered if the Lady of Winterfell was speaking of her daughter or herself, for she looked a great beauty in her dress of grey and white samite. Her chestnut hair fell in curly waves, so dissimilar to the simple northern braid Daenerys had become accustomed to seeing on Margaery.

“It is the same with my girls. Every night, I can hardly put them to bed without hearing of the dresses they have seen at court or tourney. Just this morning, they begged me to speak with one of Lord Rowan’s granddaughters and ask for their seamstress,” Jeyne Cassel added, wearing a gifted black and grey dress sewn by one of the Reach’s finest dressmakers. Every lady and daughter of the North was gifted a southern dress upon their arrival, most colored to match their Houses’ sigils. Daenerys wondered if any had risen higher in their station than the former steward’s daughter standing before her as the future Lady of the Dreadfort. As a girl, she was friends with Sansa Arryn. Now she appeared to be Margaery’s closest confidant.

“I pray they liked the dresses Visenya had left them,” said Daenerys, afraid they had chosen the wrong gifts for the Cassel girls. The dresses were meant to ingratiate themselves with the northern Houses, but Daenerys considered them more gifts to loyal friends and allies than political ploys.

“Of course, your Grace. They did not mean to offend. They loved your Graces’ gifts. They were delighted when they found them laid upon their beds. It is their most cherished…,” Jeyne panicked, almost frightened she had angered Daenerys. The look in Jeyne’s brown eyes twisted Daenerys’ stomach. Jeyne wasn’t her close friend, but she was a friend during her fostering at Winterfell.

“Jeyne, there is nothing to be sorry for, truly. If they did not like them, I would not consider it an offence. Little girls like what they like. It is not for a queen to decide which dress they may or may not prefer,” Daenerys tried her best to calm Jeyne, wanting to curse herself for her forgetfulness. Seeing through lies and deception at court came natural to Daenerys, but sometimes she forgot her crown and the effect it had on even those she had considered friends. After Jeyne returned an appreciative smile, Daenerys turned to Mya Redfort, “I noticed your son and daughter have made friends with Argella, Steffon, and Orrys.”

“Arya and myself told them of their relation…of who my father was. For the longest time, I thought to keep it a secret, but they always had questions. Better they know the hard truth and have three new cousins than none at all,” Mya Redfort explained. Her deep blue eyes casted their gaze on the Redfort and Baratheon children running underneath the gallery opposite to them.

“Cousins? I don’t understand,” said Jeyne Cassel.

“Robert Baratheon was my father,” Mya Redfort said with no love for her dead father.

“Oh. I did not know,” Jeyne said, needlessly apologetic. _Lady Mya is not the sort to be ashamed of her birth._

“Where is our Crown Princess? I intended to speak with her once more and promise our presence at the royal wedding,” Sansa interjected after glaring at her childhood friend.

“I do not know. I did not think she would leave Rhaegar’s side for the rest of the night. Mayhaps she is away with Sarra or Laena to the wine cellars. More than once, when they were just little girls, were they caught stealing Arbor golds, Dornish reds, Myrish firewines…,” Daenerys mused, searching for her oldest daughter’s silver braids and winter rose crown below. She did not see her at any of the tables or the three dancefloors. Aegon and Nymeria were missing as well, but that did not strike her as odd. They were the wildest and most passionate of her children. _Mayhaps they snuck away to their chambers, for their first time. But Arya…Where is Arya? This is not like her._

“I remember when I first came to the Red Keep. It was you, Rhaenys, Arianne, Allyria, and Visenya who snuck into the wine cellars. The first cask was Lysene, if I remember. We…,” Daenerys listened to Margaery’s recounting of their childhood memory until Ser Olyvar Waters caught her eye, dressed in his black armor and Targaryen cloak, weaving his way through the lords and ladies around them in the gallery. Something in the knight’s face told her he brought nothing but ill news.

“Ser Olyvar, go on,” Daenerys commanded when the knight hesitated to speak before her.

“Your Grace, best I…,” he went on until Daenerys nodded her head for him to come closer and whisper. “Your Grace, it is your son, Prince Aegon. He…He has fallen ill…from poison, your Grace. Maester Kullen is seeing to him now, but we have sent for Grandmaester Pylos. He…”

Daenerys averted her eyes from the knight, her friends, and the feast below. Her heart twisted and turned and beat like a war drum, beating faster and faster within her chest. Panic seeped into her bones, chilling her skin. She turned to the open window with a view of the sea and the starry night sky overhead, refusing to let anyone see their queen with worried, unshed tears in her eyes. A few moments were required before she collected herself and turned to face them all.

“My ladies, please forgive me, but there are matters I must see to,” she said, knowing Margaery and Sansa saw through her vagueness. Daenerys cared to read neither Jeyne’s nor Mya’s reaction and went with Ser Olyvar to the nearest flight of marble stairs. From the shadows, Brienne of Tarth joined them in her silver-and-gold armor and the white cloak pinned to her shoulders. “Tell me everything once we are away from so many ears and have your men watch over all of my children.”

“It is already done, my Queen,” the captain assured her as they descended the stairs. More than a few lords and ladies glimpsed their passing, but paid them as little mind as they normally would a queen and her guards. Daenerys struggled to maintain the façade, praying her beautiful Valyrian steel crown incrusted with amethyst stones would be enough to distract everyone from the slight quiver in her chin. _Any one of these lords or ladies could be behind this. Or was it some lowborn servant, seeking revenge for some perceived slight?_

Her mother seemed to notice what no one else did, giving her a motherly look of concern at her seat on the dais. Daenerys returned her mother’s concern with the slightest shake of the head, telling her to stay where she was so as not to alert the Great Hall something was amiss. They almost reached the royal entrance at the end of the dais when Snow jolted from her slumber, leaving Sers Jonothor, Simon, and Garlan to protect the dowager queens, princes, and princesses who remained. Daenerys did not know she needed her direwolf until she padded alongside her. She ran her fingers through Snow’s white fur all the way through the hallway, calming her restless nerves.

“Ser Olyvar, I’ll hear it all, now that…,” Daenerys instructed the knight, only to hold her tongue when she almost stumbled into her husband and fellow queens rounding the last corner that led out of the main keep. Daenerys felt the fury in Jon’s eyes. _I have not seen him this way since Pentos…_ “Tell me.”

“Aegon has been poisoned,” her husband stated as she joined their rushed march down the hallway. It opened out into the alley that separated the godswood from the main keep. Barristan Selmy, Arthur Dayne, and Oswell Whent stayed close on their heels while Ghost and Silver padded ahead of them. Shadow and Snow flanked their sides, minding every doorway they passed, sniffing out any hidden threats that may befall them.

“By whom?” Daenerys demanded as they stepped out into the alleyway. While she worried for Aegon, not knowing his condition, the city of King’s Landing celebrated the end of the King’s Tourney. She could hear singing and cheers from the streets. For a moment, she hated them all for their happiness, but the irrational feeling passed when she remembered they knew nothing of her poisoned son.

“The Hightower girl, Meredyth, or one her kin. Mayhaps a member of their household or someone else, we do not know,” Jon said in a shaky, raged voice that was most unlike him.

“They come to our home and poison our son! We should kill them all! I will kill this fucking little cunt before morning,” Rhaenys fumed as they neared the godswood, controlling her rage better than Daenerys would have expected. _Not if I burn the harlot first._

“You will do no such thing! We must have the truth from her before anyone is killed,” Jon shouted, thinking rationally for them all, though his ever-tightening grip on Blackfyre told Daenerys her husband wanted to kill the Hightowers as much as they did.

“Ser Kevan!” Jon called for Ser Kevan Waters, a lieutenant of their household guard trailing behind the Kingsguard. The knight caught up to march beside Jon as they entered the godswood. “Go to the main gate and tell the captain no one is to leave the Red Keep. No one, I say. He is to leave the gate open until I send a messenger telling him to close it. Tell him I want as many men watching the walls as possible. Then you are to go to the barracks and raise whatever men are not at their posts. Send two men to every known point of escape and tell them to be quiet about it. Understood?”

“Yes, my King,” Ser Kevan Waters said in the firmest of tones and left them, wasting no time to set about his task.

“Ser Olyvar! Without arousing suspicions, find Lord Commander Tollett and Grey Worm. Have them meet me in the royal apartments,” Jon ordered away the other knight as they reached the other side of the godswood. Their children’s direwolves were chasing one another underneath the trees, but each of them sensed something was wrong. One howled and the others followed, howling into the summer night. Most of them raced out of the godswood in the opposite direction, making for the Great Hall. Snowstorm broke with the pack, choosing instead to fall in with the Kingsguard.

“Fuck this,” said Visenya, deciding she was tired of their hurried march. Daenerys could not fault her impatience and followed her fellow queen’s lead, removing her heeled shoes. From the lower bailey, they ran to Maegor’s Holdfast. This was not the time to maintain their queenly grace and dignity. Jon did not argue, rushing into the holdfast with them.

Despite the endless spiraling of the stairs climbing up through Maegor’s Holdfast to the royal apartments, Daenerys did not feel the need to catch her breath. She could run for miles and miles if needed. Nothing was going to delay her from seeing her son.

“Gods! He isn’t waking! Do something! Do something! Please! Aegon! Please wake up!” Daenerys heart sunk when she heard Nymeria’s pleas for assistance from the top of the stairs. _No. Gods no._ Daenerys lifted her skirts again, sprinting with all her speed behind Rhaenys and Visenya. Nearly two dozen guards lined the hallway in silence, a far greater number than usual. Each of them bared their steel, waiting for a possible attack from within the safety of the Red Keep.

“Aegon! My son! My boy!” Rhaenys cried out for them, running through their son’s solar to his bedchamber. Daenerys felt the quiver in her chin spread through her skin, jolting all of her nerves when she laid her eyes upon Aegon. He was laid upon the bed, somehow shivering with sweat pooling on his skin. His eyes remained closed, unresponsive to Nymeria’s pleas. _I am going to burn every Hightower I can lay my hands on. I will burn them all! Their House will see its end! And the Faith! I will burn them by the thousands!_

“Aegon! Wake up! Wake up!” Daenerys joined her pleas to Rhaenys, Visenya, and Nymeria’s. She dared to touch his brow and to her horror, he felt colder than any Targaryen should, even in the cold of winter. _No! No! No! No! My son!_ Daenerys made no attempt to fight back the tears spilling down her face as she tried to soothe her son’s cheek. When he did not respond, she tried shaking his arm, pinching his skin, and kissing his cheek. Aegon did not move, only shivering as the cold continued to torment him.

“Please, my son…Come back to us. I beg of you. For your sister. For Nymeria. For me. For Rhaenys. For Visenya. Find your strength. You are a dragon. Be a dragon!” Daenerys whispered into her son’s ear, desperate for him to wake and tell her this was all some cruel jape. He did not wake. Instead, he laid there, motionless in his suffering, save the shivering.

“Maester Kullen! Why are you standing there? Do something!” Jon commanded with what others might have thought the strength of a king. Daenerys did not hear strength. There was fear and doubt in her husband’s voice.

“Your Grace, I know little of poisons. I can only counsel we keep him under the blankets for the cold. If I were to treat him, I fear I may worsen his condition without knowing what he was poisoned with. I…,” Maester Kullen explained himself. Daenerys thought to rage at the useless maester until Pylos came panting through the doorway with the many links of his chain clinking with every step.

“Move! Move! Let me have a look at the prince,” Pylos ignored their crowns, pushing them out of his way to look upon Aegon. The grandmaester laid his hand upon their son’s brow, then his neck, and onto his chest. Daenerys waited nervously as she watched through teary eyes. Jon pulled herself and Visenya to his side, doing only what he knew to comfort them as Pylos felt around Aegon’s wrists. “How long has he been like this? How long?”

“I…I…I don’t know. I don’t know. I don’t know. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry,” Nymeria barely strung her words together through her sobs. Daenerys felt even worse, watching her daughter collapse on herself, wracked with fear and unwarranted regret. Jon rightly left her side to go to Nymeria, pulling her off the bed into his arms. Rhaenys remained, sobbing and whispering into their ailing son’s ear. _He is not dying. He is not dying. I will not allow it! He is my son! He is a dragon!_

“Half…half an hour…more maybe,” Arya spoke from the corner, holding onto whatever strength remained to her. Wherever her crown of blue winter roses might be, it was gone. This should have been the happiest night in her daughter’s life and instead, it was the worst. Daenerys refused to let Arya stand their alone and pulled her into her embrace.

“Maester Kullen was right to offer blankets only. I cannot do anything here without knowing what was given to Prince Aegon. I have my guesses, but I cannot be certain. These symptoms are a mystery to me. Not like those of any poison I am aware of. You still have the girl who did this, yes? Question her, by any means if you wish to save our prince,” Grandmaester Pylos said, reminding Daenerys of Meredyth Hightower.

“Where is she? Bring her hear! Now!” Rhaenys shouted at Aegon’s side, still wiping the sweat from his brow with a silk cloth. Brienne of Tarth and Oswell Whent left the bedchamber, only to return moments later with the golden-haired girl held on either arm between them. Her once pretty face was bruised and bloodied. _Arya’s doing. The little whore is lucky my daughter did not open her throat._

“She refuses to talk. We can…,” Ser Oswell began, but Daenerys lost patience for what the knight might say. Aegon was her son just as much as he was Rhaenys’ and she was not going to let him die. Brushing past Visenya, she marched on the Hightower girl and threw her against the wall. Meredyth’s head hit the wall with a thud before Daenerys squeezed her hand around the bruised cheeks while Brienne and Oswell held her arms. Her nails dug so deep, she started to draw blood.

“Tell me! What have you done to my son? What poison? Which one? Tell it or I will have you tortured in the Black Cells until your last dying breath. I swear by the old gods and the new, I will see you suffer more than any little whore has suffered in the histories of the Seven Kingdoms! Now tell it!” Daenerys threatened and demanded, throwing Meredyth Hightower’s head against the wall again.

“It…It…It wasn’t poison. They said it would make him love me. They said he would give me a son and…This wasn’t supposed to happen. I swear, by the Seven, I swear. He…He was fine and he…They said it would work. They promised. Lys…They promised. It works in Lys. No one dies…,” Meredyth Hightower confessed only pieces of the conspiracy as she cried. Whether it was pain or fear that caused the girl’s tears, they only served to enrage Daenerys further.

“Lys, you say? The girl is right, your Graces. This isn’t poison. It has many names. In Lys, they call it Lysene Desire. Others…It is no matter. A few droplets and any man will find himself without his wits, slow-minded, and easy to seduce. It would seem the Hightowers did not know there can be ill effects, should it be mixed with several horns of ale. I will not lie to you. I do not know if I can save him, but I know what must be done. Ser Barristan, send your men to find the nearest handmaidens and have them ready a warm bath. No, a scalding one. Our prince is a dragon, is he not? When they are done, tell them to ready another, then another, and so on. We must fight this cold until it passes. Now I must return to my storeroom and fetch some vials that will see Prince Aegon through the night. Some to ease the pain and two or three to cleanse the…poison from his body,” Grandmaester Pylos instructed the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard before they both left the room.

“Brienne, take her away and do so quietly. I do not care where, so long as she is not seen or heard from by any guest within the holdfast,” Jon gave the order. Brienne yanked Meredyth onto her feet and dragged her out of Aegon’s chambers, away and out of sight.

“Your Graces, what will you have us do?” Ser Barristan Selmy asked, knowing the next moves were to be decided by the rulers of the Realm. Jon finally let go of Nymeria, as her sobs had quieted to soft, painful whimpers. He looked to her, silently asking her if she needed to be a queen or a mother. Daenerys’ felt her heart being torn apart, but she saw Nymeria returning to Aegon’s side and Rhaenys refusing to leave the other. _I must be strong for my son. My strong son. He would remember his duty, like his father. I must do the same._

“Arya, stay with your sister and see that she is never left alone. Be her strength,” Daenerys whispered in her daughter’s ear as she embraced her. She thought Arya needed the hug, but Daenerys soon realized she needed it for herself.

“We shall speak outside,” Visenya answered Ser Barristan before going to Rhaenys’ side, whispering small comforts into her ear. Rhaenys either took it well or did not listen, continuing her watch over Aegon. Daenerys thought to remain with her, overcome by her love for her son, until Visenya beckoned her to leave.

“Your Graces,” Lord Eddison Tollett offered in the gravest of tones, marching down the corridor with Grey Worm and Ser Olyvar Waters. Daenerys was grateful neither were drunk. She needed good men who were of sound mind.

“My Queens. My King. We will kill your enemies. They will pay for this. Unsullied are ready for war,” Grey Worm promised with his nostrils flaring with rage. He had personally instructed Aegon how to properly wield the three spears and taught him how to defend himself with a round shield. _If I commanded him, the Unsullied would slaughter them all. I would, but I cannot. I will not allow our enemies any chance to name us butchers who would murder guests in their own castle._

“War, you say?” Lord Varys made his presence known to them, quietly walking down the corridor to join their council. “Our enemy is our prisoner, he just doesn’t know it yet. I admit, I am…disappointed. Lord Leyton vexes me with this…desperate attempt. A gamble, reckless and fraught with innumerable dangers to himself and his House. My King. My Queens.”

“Where are they?” Daenerys demanded, guessing Varys had his birds watching the Hightowers’ every move. _Why did they not see this? Or did they? Did Varys want this?_

“Lord Leyton and Lady Rhea have retired to their chambers, as have Ser Baelor and Lady Rhonda. Ser Garth left for his chambers before them all. A little bird whispered in my ear and told me Ser Torrence remains in the Great Hall, drinking with five of his cousins and his two brothers. Their ladywives are gone, retired to the Maidenvault. The rest of their household remains in the Maidenvault. Lord Leyton’s knights are scattered about the Red Keep. A few have already left for the Street of Silk. One or two had fled to the alehouses. Their men-at-arms and camp followers are everywhere, within and without the city’s walls,” Varys informed them of the whereabouts of those who concerned them.

“Ser Barristan, take as many men as you need and join Ser Kevan at the Great Hall. Leave Ser Torrence and the rest of them to their drinking. Do not arrest them until they have left the feast. If they resist, wound them. If you must, kill them. Garlan, Simon, and Jonothor are to protect my family. They are to see them safely returned here when they please. I do not want panic to ensue at the feast. Bring them to our solar. Ser Oswell, you will lead as many men you think necessary to the Maidenvault to arrest the remaining Hightowers and their entire household. Their ladywives are not to be harmed. I will not have conflict with more Houses than one. Ser Arthur, you will arrest Lord Leyton, Ser Garth, and Ser Baelor. Take care. They may already suspect their plans have gone awry considering the change in guards. Imprison the men in the black cells. Confine the women and children to their rooms,” Jon did not hesitate to instruct their men of his plans. Ser Barristan and Ser Oswell turned on their heels and made for the spiraling stairs with haste.

“If Ser Baelor resists, kill him,” Visenya ordered the Sword of the Morning before he could take his leave to arrest the Hightowers quartered several floors below. The knight did not question the order, assuring Visenya he understood with a stern nod. _Ser Baelor will resist. He is too proud. Visenya wants someone’s blood spilt this night. Good! I pray a few more resist. The rest will burn or lose their heads._

“Ser Olyvar, once the last of the Hightowers have left the Great Hall, have the gates closed and send our fastest riders to the city’s gates. They are to be closed as well. No one leaves or enters King’s Landing. Send a rider to the docks as well. No ship is permitted to leave. None. Then, gather your most trusted men and have half of them wait to ride out to the tourney grounds. The other half will search the Red Keep should we fail to capture all of the Hightowers,” Jon ordered the captain and sent him on his way.

“Edd, gather as many of your men as you can and arrest the men outside the castle walls loyal to House Hightower. Lord Varys will aid you and your captains in these efforts. Grey Worm, send a rider to the Dragonpit to raise however many of your men remain at the barracks. Three quarters of them are to stand on the city walls. The rest are to be sent here, to protect the Red Keep. The boys still in training shall take up watches around the Dragonpit itself and the walls surrounding Rhaenys’ Hill. Leave as few Unsullied behind as needed to hold the hill. I doubt they have plans to attack the dragons, but I will take no chances,” Jon said the last of his orders. Grey Worm marched off immediately with Varys and Edd Tollett hurrying behind him.

“Lord Varys! Send for Jaren and Cregard, as well as Lords Seaworth and Baratheon, quietly,” Daenerys halted the Master of Whispers. _Jaren will be needed to rouse a few lords from their chambers and Cregard must learn from him. The ravens must fly south tonight._ “And Varys, the truth must spread through the streets before rumors or Hightower lies take root. I trust your birds will sing the right song when it is time.”

“Your Grace,” said Varys, bowing his head before turning on his heels to join Edd Tollett at the stairs.

“We will have a day, maybe two if we are fortunate before the first raven flies for Oldtown. Once the city gates are closed, everyone will know,” Visenya reminded them. _No doubt. There will be at least one lord or lady who will risk to profit from this news. I’ll make sure to discover them after the Hightower is sacked._

“We must press our advantage while we still have it. Go, be with our son. Right now, he needs you. I must find some parchment and ink. Ser Alyn and Lord Beric must know of this before the Faith Militant,” Jon decided, kissing both of their lips. Daenerys wanted to reach out and make him stay, but she knew he was doing what was right for their family. After his retreat to his office within the King’s Chambers, Visenya nudged her back into Aegon’s chambers.

Iqi and Kilezi, Nymeria’s Dothraki handmaidens, were inside Aegon’s chambers lighting the candles within his solar. It felt wrong, seeing the room illuminated and full of warmth. It did nothing to take away the cold and despair Daenerys felt, not knowing if her son would recover. _I should have been there. I should have been there for my son. I left him alone, to our enemies. I should have foreseen this. I should have burnt them all when they arrived._

“He doesn’t feel any warmer,” she heard Nymeria complain from the bedchamber. Daenerys found her daughter buried under five or six layers of fur laid upon the bed, holding’s Aegon weakened, shivering body in her arms. White Fang sat protectively at the end of the bed, waiting for any intruders to enter. Arya sat at Nymeria’s side, trying to calm her and Hura, who paced nervously back and forth by the bed. “Where is Pylos? Where is he? Aegon needs him!”

“He will return,” said Visenya in a failing voice as they both went to Rhaenys’ side to sit upon the bed. Daenerys still found her son’s brow cold to the touch. _This cannot be. Not to him. Not my son. Not him._ “I…I…I remember his first steps. He…he was so little then. He saw you and Jon and Eddard stumbling around our solar in Meereen. Aegon could not stand that…Seeing someone doing it first. For an hour, he tried and tried until he took his first step, then two, then three…By the end of the day, he almost walked across the length of the solar. I was so proud of him.”

“He will stand again,” Daenerys declared, almost gritting her teeth. _He must._ She expected Rhaenys to say what she was thinking, but her fellow queen only stared at Aegon with tear-stricken cheeks, blurry eyes, a quivering chin, and a heavy lump her throat demanding silence. _She will be lost forever if he does not wake. No, I dare not say it or think it. He will live. He will live. I will not let them steal him from us. Not again. Not like Egg or Father. I will not allow it._ “Rhaenys? Rhaenys? Rhaenys?”

“Sister?” Visenya added to her pleas for Rhaenys to say something. They waited, but Rhaenys lost her voice. There was nothing for her to say. All she had was her vigilant watch over their son. Nervous as to what she might hear from Rhaenys’ lips, Daenerys shook her head at Visenya. _We must leave her be. Now is not the time for us to be divided._

“Khaleesi, your crown?” Iqi asked, a Dothraki girl no older than Arya with big beautiful brown eyes, wavy black hair that fell halfway down her back, and a prettier face than many of the girls who were sought after at court. _My crown? I had forgotten._

“Yes. Thank you,” said Daenerys, allowing the handmaiden to take her crown. Its weight was forgotten until Iqi reminded her. Wisely, the Dothraki girl did not ask Rhaenys as Kilezi took Visenya’s. Daenerys took it upon herself to take Rhaenys’ crown ever-so slowly off her dark brown braids before handing it to Iqi. The handmaiden hurried away to place the crowns with their jewels and wardrobe inside the King’s Chambers.

Left with nothing to do but pray and hope for her son’s recovery, Daenerys stayed at Aegon’s bedside for what felt like hours. Her mind raced with memories of him, some cherished and some forgotten. She smiled to herself when she remembered all the times he made her proud and she thought herself the world’s worst mother when she remembered the times she yelled at him for minor acts of mischief. In truth, half an hour might have passed before more than a dozen Targaryen guards came into the bedchamber with buckets of steaming water. One by one, they came, filling the tub until the scalding water rose mere inches from its edge.

“Come, they must undress him and lay him in the tub,” Daenerys whispered to Rhaenys as she gently pulled her onto her feet. Grandmaester Pylos had already returned with his vials and medicines, pouring one after the other down Aegon’s throat. None of it woke him, but Daenerys did not find the courage to ask if he was supposed to wake. It scared her to hear the medicines might have failed.

“Princess is blood of dragon. Dragonblood is warmer than water or fire. Prince Aegon needs Princess Nymeria,” said Kilezi in her perfect Dothraki as she pulled away the covers. Daenerys nodded her head to her daughter, telling her to stay as she escorted Rhaenys from the chambers with Visenya’s assistance.

“I should go back. I shouldn’t leave him,” Rhaenys whispered and turned back. Daenerys and Visenya refused her, blocking the way to the door. It hurt when she weakly fought back, but Daenerys held her ground, trusting Aegon in Nymeria’s hands. “Let me through. Let me see him. He is our son! My boy…My boy.”

Rhaenys cursed them in High Valyrian, clawing and attempting to push her way through. Eventually, she collapsed, falling against the wall next to Aegon’s door. Daenerys fell to the ground and cried with her, feeling more helpless than any mother should. Not caring who might see them, guards, maids, or members of the Small Council, the three queens cried together. Daenerys rested her brow against Rhaenys’ and Visenya’s until there were no more tears to offer, only small whispers of hope and faith in their son’s resilience.

“Arya! Arya!” Daenerys finally opened her eyes when she heard Rhaegar’s voice. He sounded concerned for his sister, but he did not know. There was no panic or fright in his tone. Rising to her feet, Daenerys turned to find her son emerging from the stairs, marching past the line of guards. “Mother! Have you seen Arya? And there are guards running along the battlements with spears and shields and…What is wrong? What has happened?”

“Your brother…Aegon…He…They…The Hightowers, they tried to…,” Daenerys struggled to find her tongue, overcome once more by the fear of losing Aegon. _How do I tell him? What do I say?_ “Meredyth Hightower, she, she put something in his drink and he, he, he…”

Before Daenerys could tell Rhaegar the rest, Arya emerged from Aegon’s chambers to throw the blue rose crown off her head at the opposite wall. It was only then, she realized her firstborn daughter had not shed a tear the entire time they were at Aegon’s bed. She was so strong, for Nymeria and Aegon, and now she was breaking, falling into Rhaegar’s arms.

“He’s what? How is he?” Rhaegar asked, sounding like a scared little boy worried for his brother.

“He is not well. We tried to wake him. We tried. He…he…he…Rhaegar,” Arya tried to tell him through her sobs, but she could not hold it in any longer. She cried all of her tears into his doublet until the sobs died away into small, weak sniffles.

“I should see him. I…,” said Rhaegar.

“No. You will do no such thing. There is nothing you can do for your brother. Your sister is with him and Pylos has taken charge of his care. Look after Arya. Take her to our solar. Torrhen and Allyria are already there, waiting. They do not understand what is happening. Be strong for them, but tell them nothing. That must fall to your mothers and I. Go,” Jon commanded and Rhaegar followed without question, whisking Arya away to the King’s Chambers at the end of the hallway.

“My King! You sent for us?” Jaren Redfort came rushing down the corridor as soon as Rhaegar was gone. Little Cregard Mormont hurried close on his mentor’s heels with a tired face.

“Yes. Here, take this parchment. Should any guard try and stop you, hand them this,” Jon said, handing the squire a roll of parchment sealed with red wax marked by the thrice-headed dragon of House Targaryen. “Take Cregard and ten household guards of your choosing. If they question you, tell them it is by order of the King. You are to go and find Lords Tyrell, Redwyne, Tarly, Beesbury, Florent, Blackbar, Bulwer, Mullendore, Costayne, Cuy, Fowler, Qorgyle, and Manwoody. I do not care if you have to wake them from their beds, tell them it is my command they make their way to the Small Council Chamber. Princess Arianne, Lord Edric, and Lady Larra Blackmont must be there as well. Do you remember all of the names? Good, then go. Tell them I will meet with them as soon as I can.”

“We are laying siege to Oldtown at once,” Daenerys said as soon as the squire and page were gone. Every lord and lady Jaren was sent to retrieve commanded the men who would fight in the first battles, for their lands were closest to Oldtown.

“We are,” Jon confirmed before treating her lips to a bitter, yet somehow comforting kiss. She appreciated his love and the small gesture, but Daenerys did not feel like any kiss would quite feel the same until she was sure of Aegon’s health. When their lips parted, her husband gave her hand a reassuring squeeze before he went to comfort a distraught Rhaenys. “My love. My love. Our son will be all right. I swear it. He is strong, like his mother. Rhaenys, you cannot stay here like this. Not in front of our children. They need you to be strong. I need you. Visenya and Daenerys need you. We cannot do this without you.”

“Ser Arthur,” Visenya greeted the approaching Kingsguard. He carried his helm on one arm with Dawn sheathed at his hip. There was blood on his armor. Small specks of red dotted his white cloak.

“Ser Baelor is dead. Lord Leyton is in a black cell. He refuses to speak with any except his Grace. Ser Garth was caught unawares. Ladies Rhea and Rhonda are unharmed and confined to a guest room in the Maidenvault. Ser Oswell and Lord Commander Barristan sent messengers. Ser Torrence yielded, as did his brothers and cousins. One of their men went at one of ours with a dagger. He is dead. Lord Leyton’s household has been placed under arrest, the women and children confined to their chambers under guard and the men are in the Black Cells. Ser Barristan has them all placed in separate cells with guards watching and listening. If any of them are fool enough, we will hear their secrets,” Ser Arthur Dayne informed them, bringing a smile to Daenerys’ face for the first time since Ser Olyvar Waters pulled her away from the feast. _Good. I hope it was a slow death for Ser Baelor, however unlikely._

“Go to the Great Hall and escort my children to my solar. Torrhen and Allyria have already returned, as has Rhaegar. If my mothers or grandmother ask what has happened, if they insist, tell them,” Jon told his most loyal and trusted sword.

“And do so quietly, Ser Arthur. I want our children to hear this from us,” Visenya added before the Dornishman was away with a half-dozen Targaryen guards in tow, passing the approaching Lord Davos Seaworth and Lord Stannis Baratheon. The Hand of the King had a troubled look on his face, rife with concern. Their Master of War did not look troubled at all, only angered and displeased to be called on so late into the night.

“My Queens. My King. I presume you are going to tell us why the gate is closed and soldiers are patrolling the keep,” Lord Davos spoke first with his eyes flickering back and forth between their faces. Daenerys sensed he saw the hurt, fear, and worry in her own eyes.

“Our son Aegon has fallen ill from something Meredyth Hightower placed in his cup. Grandmaester Pylos is seeing to him now. He…He has not spoken or even opened his eyes. Leyton Hightower sits in a black cell with the rest of his household. The women and children are under guard in their rooms. Ser Baelor is dead,” Jon struggled to inform their advisors.

“Traitors, all of them. Take all of their heads and place them on spikes. I can raise an army and march on Oldtown within a moon. I will sack the city and put every Hightower to the sword. Their line will see its end. That is justice for poisoning a prince,” Lord Stannis said with the very coldness she expected of him. _Perhaps this time we should listen to him and him alone. Why should we show them mercy when they would offer us none?_

“I intend to take Oldtown by force, but it will not be in a moon. Ravens are flying south as we speak to Lord Beric Dondarrion, Thoros of Myr, and Ser Alyn Blackwood. The Brotherhood Without Banners and a contingent of my household guard will be riding for Oldtown within a day. I have already sent for the lords with men close enough to reach Oldtown within the fortnight. Go to the Small Council Chamber and wait for me. I must speak with my children first and tell them what has happened this night. After, we will speak with these lords and rally their banners. On the morrow, we shall have a war council,” Jon informed both men. Stannis tried to steel his reaction, but the gritting of his teeth made it obvious he did not approve of striking so fast. _He wants to dispense justice to the Hightower and the Starry Sept himself._ The Lord of Storm’s End knew as well as Daenerys, if House Targaryen were to fall, the Faith would set to destroy House Baratheon next for Lady Selyse’s faith in R’hllor and Lady Melisandre’s previous service to Stannis.

“Will there be a trial?” Davos Seaworth asked warily.

“A trial?” Rhaenys hissed with all of her fury, forgetting her tears and sorrow.

“Justice will be discussed on the morrow,” Jon spoke up before Rhaenys could unleash her wrath upon their Hand. Daenerys thought her fellow queen might turn her fury to Jon for denying her immediate vengeance, but Rhaenys softened when he pulled her to his side. “My lords, we will speak more of this in an hour. Now, I must be with my family.”

Each of them came into the solar, one after the other. The oldest of the children were wise enough to understand something was wrong before they set foot inside the King’s Chambers. Eddard, Senya, Jon, and Dany were quick to go to Rhaegar and Arya for information. Sansa, Naerys, and Daenys whispered amongst themselves while Brandon tried to hide his drunkenness. Daenerys wanted to curse her son, but he was not to blame. This was supposed to be a night of celebration. _How could he know?_

Lyanna Stark and Elia Martell were the last to come in, with Daenerys’ mother and Lord Monford Velaryon marching in right behind them. She studied their faces, wondering if Ser Arthur Dayne had told them of Aegon and the Hightowers. One look in Queen Lyanna’s eyes told her everything. Her brother’s queen had unshed tears in her grey eyes. Queen Elia fought away any tears, but the quiver on her lips revealed her sadness. Each of them set their crowns aside before taking their places behind the sofas occupied by the children.

“Are we in trouble?” Daemon was the first to speak with a scared, guilty look on his face. Daenerys was confident he and his twin had done something to deserve a scolding, but she did not care for such small matters with Aegon ailing.

“We only had a few sips of the wine. I promise. Only a few sips. We did not like it,” Alysanne confessed to stealing a taste of wine. _I wish I could laugh at her misbehavior. Any other night, I would. But I can’t…_

“Mothers and Father did not send the Kingsguard to collect us from the feast because you stole some wine, sister,” Eddard put Alysanne’s mind at ease. “There are guards at every corner in the holdfast and two dozen were posted outside the godswood. The barracks are empty, I would say. Something is wrong.”

“Where is Aegon?” Valarr asked nervously.

“And where is Nymeria?” Ashara asked, twisting and turning in her place on the sofa, seemingly hoping to find her older siblings hiding in a corner of the solar.

“Nymeria is with your brother. Ashara, Viserra, Lya, Rhae, all of you, listen to me carefully. Your brother is very sick. I know you wish to see him, but that is not possible. Only myself, your mothers, your grandmothers, Nymeria, and Grandmaester Pylos are to visit his chambers. When he is feeling better and the grandmaester thinks he is well enough to see you, he will,” said Jon, standing to her right. Visenya and Rhaenys donned braver faces than herself, masking their grief and anger. Daenerys could still feel the trembling of her lips and the quiver of her chin threatening to tell her children how terribly injured their brother truly was.

“All of this, because he is sick?” Daenys asked with narrowed eyes, peering to see the truth in Jon’s vague words.

“Your brother was poisoned by the Hightowers. Meredyth Hightower. She planned to…She thought she could steal your brother away from Nymeria. She put a poison in his drink that could trick his mind, but she used too much. Mixed with the ale, your brother fell ill,” Jon replied, trying his best without telling their youngest exactly what the Hightowers intended for Aegon. The eldest understood as soon as the Hightower girl was mentioned.

“That evil cunt!” Naerys surprised them all. It was the first time Daenerys had ever heard her daughter curse. Another night, she might have cursed her daughter for speaking in such a way around her youngest siblings.

“This was their doing, wasn’t it? The Hightowers and the Faith. Meredyth did not act alone. Her brother helped her. I saw him dancing with Nymeria. I will kill him!” Valarr swore with a violent rage in his dark eyes. Daenys tried to calm him, pulling his hands from his silver hair before he could tear some out.

“Is Aegon going to die?” Rhaenyra asked before she burst into tears. She was their most observant child and she saw through the half-truths. She could see the pain and worry in their eyes as easily as she sees all the details and imperfections of a castle she might include in one of her paintings.

“Your brother is going to live! Don’t you say that! Don’t you dare say that!” Rhaenys screamed at Rhaenyra, making things worse. Daenerys was ready to scream at Rhaenys for the outburst, but her fellow queen began to cry, regretting what she had said. Despite her tears, Rhaenys went to Rhaenyra to hold her, apologize, and whisper promises of Aegon’s recovery.

“Your brother is very, very sick. I cannot tell you when he will get better. I just know he will,” Jon added calmingly.

“None of you are to leave the royal apartments without guards, no exceptions, no matter where you go. And there will be no leaving the Red Keep for some days,” Visenya informed their children. None of them complained or winced at the decree. Each of them understood the seriousness of the situation, or at least pretended to.

“Hug your father, each of you. You may not see him until our next supper,” Daenerys decreed. Without protest, her sons and daughters hugged their father. For every child, Jon had something different to whisper in their ears before he left the solar, marching off to the Small Council Chamber with Lord Monford.

“Daenerys, is he…,” her mother pounced on her for information as soon as Jon was gone. Lyanna Stark and Elia Martell flanked her sides, wishing to hear more from herself or Visenya while Rhaenys still clung to Rhaenyra.

“Mother, I can’t. Not now,” she refused her mother as she spied her eldest gathering on the terrace outside the solar. Valarr and Jon were arguing with each, ready to come to blows before Rhaegar separated them with Eddard’s help.

“We will go see him then,” Elia Martell declared, already turning on her heels.

“No, you will not. Nymeria is with him and if he needs us, she will send for us. Pylos has instructed we allow Aegon to recover in a warm bath to fight away the chill. Leave them be,” Visenya dared to invoke her authority over her mothers and grandmother before Daenerys was forced to thwart them with her own authority. They intended to permit the dowager queens to see Aegon after dawn. “Besides, the little ones need us more than Aegon.”

When Visenya went to console an upset Ashara and a confused Allyria, Daenerys wandered out of the solar, onto the terrace. All of the bickering, curses, and whispers ceased when Arya turned around, noticing her approach. Their faces were a mixture of anger, confusion, fear, and sadness.

“There will be a war,” Senya spoke for her siblings, knowing such an act against their brother would not go unanswered.

“Yes,” Daenerys confirmed what they already knew, joining them along the balustrade to look out onto the Blackwater. The bay was empty, with no ships to take advantage of the winds rolling off the sea. In two days, the bay would be filled with the black sails of the Royal Fleet and the sea-green sails of the Velaryon Fleet. She doubted any ships would be permitted to leave for a sennight and those wishing to port would be forced through the most thorough searches from the harbormaster’s men, the customs inspectors, and a host of soldiers to be sure neither enemies nor weapons were smuggled into King’s Landing.

“Is Father calling the banners? All of them?” Brandon inquired with the eagerness of a bloodthirsty soldier itching to march off to war.

“He is calling some of them. This war will be a short one, if I have anything to say about it. We will strike hard and fast against Oldtown. The Hightowers will be removed from their rule of the city and the Most Devout will be put to the sword. And these Faith Militant will be hunted down and killed, should they run and hide,” Daenerys told her children the truth, deciding they were old enough to know thousands would die in this war.

“Tell Father, Valarr and I will go with him when he flies south,” Brandon said with the arrogance of a boy who had never seen war. Daenerys knew her son and it was not the ale speaking.

“I will do no such thing,” Daenerys promised, glaring at them both. “You are only thirteen. This war will be fought by men, my son, not boys who have never set foot on a battlefield.”

“But Father was thirteen when he won his first battle! He fought the wildlings, beyond the Wall. He saved Lord Commander Mormont. The lord commander gave him Longclaw after the battle. We can fight!” Valarr swore.

“You are not your father and your father had no business ranging beyond the Wall. And do not think I did not tell him so before he rode out from Castle Black. Brandon. Valarr. Follow your brother’s example. Do you not think Aemon is brave? Do you not think he wants to fight for our House? Your brother is smart enough to know your Father and I cannot fight a war if we have to worry about our sons fighting on the battlefield. Let me remind you what your father has told you a hundred times. A battlefield is chaos, madness. The bravest and most skilled knights can fall to the weakest of foes depending on the ground they stand, the numbers they face, or some ill-fortune that curses them. You both will follow the commands of your mother, your Queen, and remain in King’s Landing, to oversee the defenses of the city and the Red Keep,” Daenerys told her sons.

“And what of us? We do not have to set foot on a battlefield. We have dragons,” Dany made sure to remind her. _I can almost see the dragonflames dancing in her eyes._

“That is not my decision alone to make,” Daenerys said all she was willing to say to her namesake. _If I have my way, you will fly south with us. Ten dragons are better than four._

“Daenerys!” she heard her name from the solar. Visenya wandered out onto the terrace with her arms around Alysanne and Vaella’s shoulders. “We are going to the godswood to pray for Aegon. We hoped you would join us.”

“I will,” said Daenerys, intending to pray to the old gods, the gods of Old Valyria, and even R’hllor. Whether it was Melisandre’s Lord of Light or the old gods or some other god, she hoped they would look after her son as they did his father. She never believed in the gods until Jon was returned to her.

“We will go as well. All of us,” Rhaegar spoke for his brothers and sisters on the terrace.

The great oak and its smokeberry vines were not the same as Winterfell’s heart tree, but Daenerys knelt before it all the same. In another corner of the godswood, a small, waist-high weirwood still had years to grow, as did the weirwood on Dragonstone. The seeds were gifts from the free folk who lived beyond the Wall, given to them on their northern royal progress. For the longest time, Daenerys lost hope the seeds would sprout in the southern soil. Two years past, she was delighted to discover the weirwoods emerging from the godswood floors within their castles.

“Do you think they can hear our prayers? How can they see us without eyes in a weirwood?” Rhaella asked worryingly, kneeling amongst the red flowers beneath the great oak.

“If you pray and tell them no lies, they will listen. The old gods can see through more than just weirwoods, some believe. Some say they see through the eyes of birds and wolves, elk and foxes, even trees,” Daenerys assured her daughter, who looked more and more like herself with every passing day. In her own attempt to comfort her daughter and herself, she ran her fingers through Rhaella’s smooth silver mane while her head was bowed before the heart tree.

“But trees do not have eyes, nor flowers or bushes,” Vaella whispered, praying on Daenerys’ other side.

“Do you think the old gods need eyes to see? I have seen many faces carved upon weirwoods and I do not recall many of those faces having ears. And yet, the old gods still hear your prayers, Vaella,” Daenerys told the always skeptical princess. “Rhaella, say your prayers and believe the old gods will look after your brother.”

When Vaella and Rhaella returned to their silent prayers, Daenerys bowed her head again before the heart tree. She listened to winds blowing through the trees and the sound of a pack of direwolves padding across the grass behind them. The sounds of a celebratory city remained, unaffected by the events that had taken place within the Red Keep. Daenerys tried to ignore the faint echo of cheers and song, remembering her own prayers.

_If you are listening, watch over my son. Heal him. Protect him. I beg of you, save him. He has done nothing to deserve his namesake’s fate. Do not take him from me, from us. He is good and chivalrous and dutiful. If the First Men truly know your rules, forgive my son for loving his sister. We are the blood of Old Valyria. It is our way. It does not hurt anyone. Please, do not let them take my son from me. I lost my brother and my nephew. I lost two uncles. I lost a brother and my father to madness. Do not take Aegon from me._

_Heal him and I promise to be as merciful as a queen may be. Watch over our children when I cannot. I will protect our people in this war. I will protect the Realm from the Most Devout and the Faith Militant and those who would follow them. They mean to destroy my family. They mean to slaughter every man and woman and child who prays to you. Protect my family. Protect my husband in the battles to come. Protect Rhaenys and Visenya. I love them as I love Jon. I cannot bear it, to live in a world without them. Protect my children, should they fly south, to war…_

“Should we check on them?” asked Jon as she peeked into Aegon’s bedchamber. Hura and White Fang were fast asleep at the end of Aegon’s bed with Kilezi and Iqi buried beneath the covers behind them. Relieved to see the handmaidens were not required to tend to her son, Daenerys turned her gaze to the bronze bathtub. Aegon’s eyes were still closed, but the shivering and shaking were gone. Either the steaming water or Nymeria’s warmth or Pylos’ medicines or all of it were healing him, or so Daenerys prayed.

“No,” she decided. Nymeria was finally asleep, resting her head against Aegon’s shoulder. “Nymeria is taking care of him. We should leave them be.”

“Are they asleep?” Jon asked when they returned to their own bedchamber. Daenerys was already finished unbraiding her hair and slipped the silk of her dress off her shoulders before she turned to her husband.

“I doubt the oldest are, but Torrhen, Vaella, Allyria…They at least pretended to fall asleep,” Daenerys answered when she moved to help Jon out of his breeches. If it were any other night, she would have taken his cock in hand and stroked away with the hope he would throw her against the wall and fuck her until he gave her his seed. This night, all she could think of was Aegon and the war Leyton Hightower had started.

Daenerys wanted to lay her head on her King’s scarred chest and listen to the beat of his heart until she fell asleep. She wished to lie atop his hard, muscled body. Rhaenys needed him more than herself or Visenya, so she slid underneath the silk sheets against Jon’s side. Scared to feel alone or cold, Daenerys nuzzled further and further into his side, clumsily tangling her legs with Jon and Rhaenys’.

“Tell us of the meeting. I must know before I can sleep,” Visenya demanded, entwining her fingers with Daenerys’ on the small of Rhaenys’ back.

“Ravens are flying south with the lords’ instructions. Most of the army should reach Oldtown in a fortnight. In two days, our fleet should arrive. The Blackwater Rush is closed to barges and river runners. I sent for our Dothraki. I will have them scout the lands surrounding the city. Lady Alerie is with Willas and Allyria. She denies any knowledge of this plot. Whether she knew or not, I do not want to know,” Jon whispered.

“I agree. Willas is more than willing to move against his mother’s kin. We will need him after the war and I will not risk losing a sister over one Hightower, guilty or not,” Daenerys said, knowing she did not want to lose her close relationship with Allyria nor ruin their close ties to their Warden of the South.

“Some blood was spilled on the tourney grounds as well as one of the taverns near Cobbler’s Square. Six of their men, none of ours. Varys informed me his little birds have begun to whisper what has happened this night. Before midday, the entire city will know, I should think. Ser Jorah is seeing to the castle’s defenses right now,” her King said before kissing her silver mane. He did the same for Rhaenys and Visenya, silently urging them to find their sleep. Daenerys closed her eyes, hoping she would wake to learn Aegon was down in the training yard sparring with Rhaegar.

**King Jon Targaryen**

It took the bells of King’s Landing to wake Jon from his tired sleep. Casting aside his morning ritual of a spar with Visenya and Ser Arthur Dayne, he hurried from his bed to the bath on the other side of the King’s Chambers. For the first time in many years, he focused only on washing his hair and cleaning his skin. There was no time to take Rhaenys’ breasts in his mouth, to taste Daenerys’ sweet nectar, or to make love to Visenya in the water.

Before he donned a dark red doublet over a white undertunic, Visenya handed him a comfortable pair of black breeches to match his finely polished leather boots. His wives all chose simple Pentoshi silk dresses in various shades of red that required little assistance from their Dothraki handmaidens. Visenya and Rhaenys allowed their hair to fall freely over their shoulders while Daenerys asked Vithi for a simple braid, for they were already late to wake.

From the King’s Chambers, Jon escorted his queens to their son’s bedchamber. Aegon had been moved an hour before from the bronze tub to his bed once Grandmaester Pylos determined the chill had passed. To their dismay, he had yet to wake from the sickness. It made them feel helpless, standing there without the power to help their son. Soups, medicines, and Nymeria’s love were the only things that were left to save him.

Near an hour passed before they departed Maegor’s Holdfast for the Small Council Chamber in the main keep. The four knights of his father’s Kingsguard and three dozen Targaryen guards went with them while Sers Simon, Garlan, and Brienne protected the royal apartments. Ghost, Snow, Silver, and Shadow joined their procession outside the godswood, escorting them the rest of the way.

The Red Keep remained as quiet as a crypt. None of the highborn dared to leave their chambers and act as if it were a normal day. There were no lordlings chasing after maids, no aspiring knights practicing their swordplay in the baileys, nor members of court whispering secrets or plots to each other. Jon spied only guards in the black-and-red cloaks of the household guard and the Unsullied reinforcements from the Dragonpit, standing along every wall, at every corner with their spears and shields.

“How long have they been waiting?” Jon asked his squire. Jaren Redfort stood waiting outside the Small Council Chamber with Cregard Mormont. The page impressed him with his strong posture and attentiveness.

“Not long, my King,” Jaren lied, falling in with the guards marching behind them. The direwolves ran ahead to join their brothers and sisters near the chamber. Zokla and Winter remained sitting on their haunches while Grey Wind, Nymeria, and Lady yipped and howled at the youngest wolves chasing each other up and down the hall. Snowstorm and Frost appeared to be the leaders of the young pack, which was not unusual.

Two Unsullied sentries were posted outside the council chamber beside the marble dragon statues. Both stood at attention upon their approach and bowed their heads as Jon passed through the archway. Within, dozens stood from their seats around the great table. More rose from the chairs settled against the chamber’s walls.

“Your Graces,” the chamber echoed, with some speaking louder than others. One in four of the lords looked to be recovering from the previous night’s feast. The archons of Essos or their highest-ranking emissary were called to attend the meeting. Because this meeting concerned Westerosi affairs, the Essosi were seated along the walls to Jon’s left and right.

Jon rounded the table, nodding once to the larger than usual council. The lesser lords whose men would form the army laying siege to Oldtown occupied the chairs closest to the door while the lords of the Great Houses filled out the middle of the table. The members of the Small Council sat at the far end, nearest the chairs saved for the King and Queens.

Rhaegar and Arya sat at opposite sides of the table, Rhaegar between his Stark grandmother and Lord Davos Seaworth, and Arya between Queen Rhaella and Lord Monford Velaryon. The remaining princes and princesses took the chairs along the tapestry covered walls. For a meeting of such importance, they decided to include Aemon, Naerys, Brandon, Sansa, Valarr, and Daenys.

“My son,” Queen Lyanna Stark almost whispered as he marched past. His mother looked as tired as he felt, but she still looked younger than her years, as did Queen Elia Martell. Rhaenys took the chair beside him at the head of the table while Daenerys sat to his left, Visenya to Rhaenys’ right. Once their Graces were seated, the lords and ladies followed suit. The Kingsguard assumed their places behind Jon, all save Barristan Selmy, for the Lord Commander had a seat on the Small Council.

“Prince Aegon…How is my nephew?” Princess Arianne Martell dared to break the silence when no else would.

“The chill has passed…but he is yet to wake,” answered Daenerys, unable to mask the worry in her voice.

“Our son will recover. He is the blood of the dragon,” Rhaenys added in the firmest of tones. Jon caught her eyes searching for any signs of doubt in the faces around the table. “Fire and blood will come for House Hightower, the Most Devout, the Faith Militant, and all who stand with them. Treachery, deceit, and treason will not go unpunished. Not under our rule.”

“Before we speak of war, justice must first come to those who have committed these crimes. Lord Varys,” Visenya calmly said to set the first order of discussion.

“My Queen. I put Meredyth Hightower to question. It is as Grandmaester Pylos presumed. At Ser Torrence’s direction, the girl’s brother played a part in this plot, serving as a distraction to Princess Nymeria. While the boy and the princess danced, Meredyth Hightower came upon the prince in a hallway outside the Great Hall. A vial of Lysene Desire was slipped into Prince Aegon’s drink while his direwolf was away. She meant to seduce, not poison. The fools, they did not account for the ale. Our prince insisted on returning to his chambers as he fell ill and the girl assisted him to his bed with the intention of becoming pregnant with child,” Varys told them of what he learned, leaving out any threats or violence used to collect Meredyth Hightower’s confession.

“So, the girl has confessed. Take off her head and put it on a spike. Let the people of King’s Landing see what happens when you poison a prince,” Princess Arianne proposed a fate that earned nods of approval and disapproving shakes around the table. _Is this Arianne speaking or my wife?_

“Take off her head and put it on a spike? For the smallfolk to see? She is still a lady of noble birth. Perhaps that sort of punishment is commonplace in Dorne. In the Vale, it is considered unseemly,” Lord Yohn Royce argued, as Jon had expected. The Master of Laws was a fair man, but he was always cautious to punish nobility in ways that might seem too cruel or more fitting for the lowborn.

“What is unseemly is almost killing a prince and we are not in the Vale, Lord Royce. Last I recall, King’s Landing lies within the Crownlands,” Arianne quipped, narrowing her dark eyes at Yohn Royce.

“Has she implicated Lord Leyton Hightower?” asked Ser Jorah Mormont, seated in his dark green doublet after Lord Stannis Baratheon. The Lord of Storm’s End wore a black and gold doublet with a Baratheon stag golden pin over his heart.

“She did. It would seem Lord Leyton and the late Ser Baelor were present when her father gave her instructions for her role in this plot,” Varys informed the council.

“Has the girl said anything of the Most Devout or the Faith Militant? The raids along the Sunset Sea?” Lord Davos Seaworth leaned forward to inquire.

“Lord Leyton maintained a close circle. The girl was only privy to her own role in this plot, I am afraid to say. I suspect only Gunthor, Humfrey, and Garth are privy to all their lord father’s plots. I might discover more information by…other means, but I know fear when I see it. The girl confessed all she knows. I think if your Graces were to question her, you would find her not to be the bravest of girls,” Varys said knowingly.

“Ser Garth then,” Yohn Royce suggested.

“Greysteel? The questioning…would take some time,” Varys explained his reason for not putting the old knight to torture.

“Perhaps for a Spider. My men…,” Yohn Royce started until his eyes met Jon’s.

“Ser Garth will refuse to betray his family, even under pain of torture. That road is folly. No, I will speak with Leyton Hightower and make him see reason. The survival of his House depends on it,” Jon said for all in the chamber to hear. “Lord Varys, what else have you learned from the prisoners?”

“I have yet to question the women and children. None of Lord Leyton’s household revealed any secrets of value, but a distant cousin, Ser Harbert Hightower, did tell me something of great value after begging his King’s pardon. Ser Harbert may be of low rank within his House, but the knight does remember faces and sigils. More than once, he spied Ser Baelor meeting with an Ironborn captain. A man of black hair, with a great unkept beard and a crescent scar around his right eye. His sigil is dark green pines over yellow…” Varys replied, twisting his neck to look down the table to Lady Yara Greyjoy. Jon was not surprised at the identity of the Ironborn conspirator. Many Orkwoods perished at the Battle of the Gullett. _So, Lord Quenton made a pact with Leyton or his son plotted in secret._

“Keron Orkwood. I shall open his throat before I set sail for Orkmont to kill his lord father and a few uncles,” Yara Greyjoy promised with a bloodthirsty grin. Lord Alyn Orkwood was one of the first lords to proclaim Euron Greyjoy King of the Iron Islands at the kingsmoot during the War of the Four Kings, not something the Lady of Pyke was soon to forget.

“Who is to say House Orkwood acted alone?” Lord Jaime Lannister asked what many at the table were thinking.

“That’s funny, coming from a Lannister. If the Lord of Casterly Rock wishes to accuse me of treason, he should have the balls to say it,” said Yara Greyjoy, not caring to hide her dislike for House Lannister.

“Enough! I’ll hear of no divisions at this table. Lady Yara and House Greyjoy have proven their loyalty to the Iron Throne. Should anyone at this table question that, they are welcome to walk out that door,” Jon warned every lord and lady seated at the great table before eyeing the entrance to the chamber. “Lord Jaime is not entirely wrong. There may be others, though I doubt it.”

“Most like, Quenton Orkwood agreed to raid the western shores in return for Leyton Hightower’s promise of sailing against the Iron Fleet with your Graces’ support, had you agreed to the betrothals and his plans for the Iron Islands,” Ser Jorah offered his sound reasoning.

“And where is Keron Orkwood now?” Rhaenys demanded an answer.

“He and his men have rooms at _The Green Mermaid_ , near the River Gate, my King. Lord Commander Eddison is leading a hundred of the City Watch to arrest them now. Two hundred Unsullied go with them,” said Grey Worm. _Three hundred spears to arrest a dozen, two dozen men? I suppose I cannot fault Edd or Grey Worm for being overcautious._

“Throw them in the Black Cells and question them. The first man willing to testify to the truth of the raids along the western shores will be pardoned. Hang the liars. Keron Orkwood will stand trial with the Hightowers to face my own justice,” Jon decreed, knowing he needed to dispense justice the old way.

“What of the second man who confesses?” Varys inquired curiously.

“If they knew, they were traitors to the Realm, the Iron Throne, and their liege, Lady Yara. They will hang with the rest,” Visenya said coldly. “If you think some of Keron’s men are not privy to the treason, let their fate be decided by Lady Yara. In a time of peace, they would be free to go, but this is a time of war.”

“What is to be done with regards to Lord Quenton and his brothers? They are either raiding the shores of the Reach or plotting rebellion on Orkmont,” Lord Ardrian Celtigar surmised, carefully eyeing the Iron Islands on the map of Westeros laid out across the great table. _He speaks at the behest of my Master of Ships._ Jon knew Driftmark sought to weaken the Iron Fleet and House Celtigar would see some profit in the destruction of House Orkwood.

“I could gather a fleet of my swiftest war galleys. My son could reach Orkmont within…,” Lord Monford Velaryon said before Yara Greyjoy shouted him down.

“Mind the Narrow Sea, Lord Velaryon, where you belong. I will deal with my own traitors, unless you wish to see my captains return to reaving and raping the shores of Westeros. I have kept them in line and will continue to do so, for my King and Queens. But if my people were to see the war galleys of Driftmark raiding our shores, sinking our longships, and putting our men to the sword, they would not obey my rule for long. Would they? With your Graces’ leave, I will send a raven to Ten Towers. My uncle Rodrik is old, but he still has more wits than any man on Harlaw. He will blockade Orkmont until I return to kill as many Orkwoods as needed,” Yara warned Monford before looking to Jon and his Queens for approval of her plans for the House Orkwood.

“House Orkwood, must it disappear with Lord Quenton and his brothers?” Daenerys asked Yara, for the Lady of Pyke knew the rebellious House far greater than any seated at the table.

“There is a boy fostered at Grey Garden by my kin. Should the right throats be cut, the boy will inherit the lordship. His father is already dead and his mother is a Harlaw,” Yara smirked with pleasure.

“How fortuitous,” Varys quipped, displeasing Yara with his implication. Only this time, the Lady of the Iron Islands had nothing clever or venomous to say. _I must pay more mind to the Iron Islands. She did not hatch this plot with Oldtown, but did she anticipate such treasons and allow them to unfold for her gain?_

“After Keron Orkwood and his men have been questioned and sentenced to their fates, Lady Yara and her fleet will set sail for the Iron Islands. House Greyjoy and the Iron Fleet alone will bring the King’s justice to Lord Quenton and those who would conspire with him. Should you need aid of the Royal Fleet, send for it,” Jon decreed. The Lady of Pyke treated him with a bow while the Master of Ships scowled at his rival.

“Lady Missandei, you have something to add before we speak of Oldtown?” Daenerys asked, noticing their advisor’s hesitation to speak.

“Your Grace, what of the Hightowers and the members of their household being held in the Black Cells? How are they to be tried and judged? The smallfolk…,” Missandei spoke until she found herself interrupted.

“A trial will be held in the Throne Room. We already have the girl’s confession of her own guilt and that of her kin. She will testify, as will this Ser Harbert. More witnesses will be brought forth, should they be discovered or come forward on their own accord. The accused will sit in judgement before their Graces, just like any other trial. It is the law of the Realm,” Yohn Royce said, dismissing the notion the laws of Westeros or the norms of a trial were flexible in any way. Jon was glad for the lord’s strict adherence to the laws of his kingdom, for that quality was needed on the Small Council.

“Sit in judgement of their Graces? That would be a mistake,” Stannis said in the steely voice of a hardened battle commander, well-practiced in dismissing the plans of his bannermen. Yohn Royce was never afraid to disagree with or show contempt for fellow members of the Small Council, but this time he refrained from arguing with his foe. Stannis was the only soul the Lord of Runestone feared besides the King and Queens.

“Lord Stannis is correct. It would be foolish for our King and Queens alone to judge the guilt of the Hightowers,” said Rhaegar, surprising many around the table for he rarely spoke so boldly at Small Council meetings.

“My Prince, forgive me, but it would be foolish for them to recuse themselves. It is their duty to administer justice across the Realm. Their Graces must oversee these trials so as not to set certain precedents,” countered Yohn Royce.

“My brother nor Lord Stannis said anything of my father and mothers recusing themselves. No matter how these trials unfold, this is about more than the guilt of the Hightowers and a few Orkwoods. We are provided an opportunity to set the Realm to right, with regards to the Starry Sept and those whose allegiance is torn between the Iron Throne and the Most Devout. This trial must be seen as more than fair in the eyes of the smallfolk if we are to rid ourselves of the threat the Faith Militant pose,” Arya backed Rhaegar’s counsel with the confidence of a crown princess. Jon could not help but swell with pride as his eldest daughter spoke like a true ruler in her own right.

“Prince Rhaegar and Princess Arya are right. They know as well as Lord Stannis, we cannot allow the Faith Militant to gather sympathy for their cause. Most of the smallfolk, even those in the Reach, support the Iron Throne. They know their Graces to be the heroes who saved the Realm from a winter without end. If these Poor Fellows and Warrior’s Sons do not run and hide from our armies, they will fall by the tens of thousands. After they are defeated and Oldtown is taken, changes will be made within the Starry Sept. The faithful must see these changes as just. They must learn they have been betrayed by the septons and septas of the Starry Sept. They must hear of the crimes of Lord Leyton and the Most Devout. The smallfolk who have remained loyal must not see this war as a war against their gods, led by a king and queens who do not worship the Seven,” Queen Elia Martell backed her grandchildren.

“If the trials are handled with care, there will not be another uprising from the Faith Militant for another hundred years. The faithful will remember their King and Queens as the saviors of the Realm and the saviors of the Faith of the Seven. They will know it was House Targaryen and the loyal Houses of the Realm who rid the Starry Sept of corruption. They will see the Most Devout as sinners who led their followers astray,” Queen Lyanna Stark added, seated across from Elia. Both wore simple dresses in the style of the Crownlands, Lyanna’s of dark blue samite and silver thread, and Elia’s of a dark violet silk.

“It has already been decided. My King, myself, and my fellow Queens will sit in judgement at the trials, but we will not do so alone. Lord Willas Tyrell. Lord Samwell Tarly. Lord Davos Seaworth. We ask that you sit in judgement of the accused and we ask you judge them fairly,” Visenya informed the Small Council Chamber. Willas was chosen because the smallfolk knew his mother was born a Hightower and House Tyrell was beloved under his rule, for starvation never inflicted its wrath upon the Reach during the last winter. They picked Samwell because he was charitable to his smallfolk and word of his charity had spread across the Reach. Davos was their Hand and lowborn himself, making him the easiest, right choice.

“My lords, if any of you wish to counsel a different course for the trials, say so now,” said Rhaenys after their chosen judges voiced no opposition to their appointment.

“Seven judges…the smallfolk will like that,” Arianne mused aloud with some humor in her voice.

“What if Lord Leyton or his kin choose a trial by combat? What then?” asked Lord Warryn Beesbury from the far end of the table, earning looks of dismissal from half the Small Council.

“What then?” Queen Rhaella echoed Beesbury as Jon heard Ser Arthur Dayne step forward behind his chair. “Lord Hightower’s champion will have the honor of losing his head to the Sword of the Morning. Lord Warryn, best you stay silent until your King or Queen asks for your wise counsel.” At that, the Lord of Honeyholt cowered away in his seat, realizing he was the only one in the chamber who did not consider who would serve as the Crown’s champion.

“We will speak of this trial again on the morrow,” said Jon, knowing he still needed to speak with Leyton Hightower before they were to proceed with their plans. “My Lords. My Ladies. We must move against Oldtown at once, for this war has already begun. I would have your counsel.”

“My King, Riverrun can raise a host of thirty-thousand men at the Stoney Sept within a moon. A greater number may be gathered, but it would take some time, time we do not have. My men would cross the Blackwater Rush and take the road to Bitterbridge, where we could join our forces on the Roseroad. Then, we would march south to Highgarden to join our forces to Lords Baratheon, Tyrell, and Lannister. Your Grace would lead more than a hundred thousand men against whatever army the Hightowers and the Faith might assemble,” Lord Edmure Tully stood from his chair, proudly pointing at the map on the table as he laid out his plans. _He would have thousands fall to the Faith Militant’s raiding and pillaging while he gathers a great host. We do not need one hundred thousand men to sack Oldtown._

“Over one hundred thousand men. Lord Edmure, I am impressed. They will sing songs of this great army,” Arianne said mockingly. Her thin, low cut Dornish dress made of yellow silk still caught the eyes of several gawking lords around the table. Edric Dayne sat at her side, unimpressed by Edmure’s slow march to war.

“My father and Ser Gerold already have a host waiting in the mountains. Ten thousand good men who know war and have seen more than one battle. A raven is flying south to them as we speak. They should reach Oldtown within the fortnight,” Edric informed the chamber of the army they had already marshalled.

“We do not need lies at a war council. House Dayne does not have ten thousand men. Even if it were true, how could they have an army ready to march at once?” Lord Paxter Redwyne voiced his skepticism. The old, bald Lord of the Arbor did not hide his disdain for the Dornish nor a potential rival who may provide the bulk of the army’s strength.

“My lord father does not march alone. Lord Franklyn has provided men from Skyreach, Lady Larra from Blackmont, Lord Quentyn from Sandstone, and Lord Dagos from Kingsgrave,” Edric replied with a smirk.

“Princess Arianne and Lord Edric began assembling this army several moons ago at my command. War was always likely, I just did not foresee Lord Leyton’s desperation,” Jon informed Paxter Redwyne and the lords of the Reach who were not privy to their preparations.

“Ten thousand men will not be enough to take Oldtown, even if Lord Alaric takes them by surprise in a fortnight. The city has too many people loyal to House Hightower and the Faith,” said Lord Harrold Arryn before looking to Willas Tyrell seated beside him.

“No, ten thousand will not be enough. I have sent a raven to Highgarden. My cousins will raise a host, but I am afraid my men will not reach Oldtown before the fighting begins, if your Graces still intend for Lord Alaric to begin the siege within the fortnight,” Willas informed the council.

“My Lords, we have asked you to attend this Small Council meeting so we may have your counsel on these matters of war. Tell us, how many men, if any can you send to Oldtown within the fortnight?” Visenya asked the Reach lords at the far end of the great table.

“Horn Hill is not as far as Highgarden, but it is still some distance from Oldtown. Two thousand of my cavalry will join the Dornish lords within a fortnight. Within a moon, another three thousand of my men should arrive,” Samwell Tarly promised a reasonable contingent of forces.

“My King, my scouts report a great host near my lands. If they have not gone far, I could send four thousand mounted men after them. We could catch them unawares and scatter them to…,” Lord Alester Florent boasted with all of his pride and ambition showing on his face. _We must watch the Florents. If we are not careful, they will try to impress us with butchery._

“No, your four thousand cavalry will ride for Oldtown to begin the siege. The Faith Militant will give chase once word of the war has spread. They are peasants on foot. Your men will reach the city before they do,” Jon said sternly, leaving no chance for the lord to claim a misunderstanding should his men attack the enemy before reaching Oldtown.

“Your Graces, between myself, Lord Lorent, and Lord Warryn, we can send three thousand to Oldtown in the time you ask,” Merrick Bulwer, a young and ambitious rival of the Hightowers, spoke for himself and the lords of Bandallon and Honeyholt.

“So few, Lord Merrick?” Daenerys asked.

“Apologies, my Queen, but a good number of my smallfolk have joined the Poor Fellows and the rest are wary of fighting their kin. I thought it wise to provide my most loyal, reliable thousand men. This issue plagues Lords Lorent and Warryn even more than myself,” Merrick offered his reason. Jon only nodded his head, masking his own suspicions of Merrick Bulwer. The Lord of Blackcrown had much to gain from the downfall of House Hightower. _Mayhaps he wishes let the other lords fight and lose men while he loses far less._

“Your Graces, you will have three thousand men from Houses Mullendore, Costayne, and my own. Less than a modest host, I know, but it will take longer than a fortnight to raise more,” said Lord Branston Cuy, a lord near fifty years of age, eager to be rid of the Hightower’s influence and power.

Tommen Costayne remained silent and difficult to read, but those were known qualities of the lord. He was a cautious man who never made promises he did not keep and proved himself a capable battle commander during the War of the Four Kings and the Great War. Jon wished Costayne and Lord Martyn Mullendore had remained south, at their keeps. Like Tommen, Martyn was an accomplished commander Jon relied on in the wars and the months after when bandits plagued the Roseroad.

“My sons will set sail within three days, bringing four thousand infantry,” Lord Paxter Redwyne added.

“And how many warships?” Lord Monford inquired.

“One hundred and fifty. More than enough to crush Ser Gunthor and his petty fleet,” Paxter Redwyne offered dismissively, knowing the Hightower Fleet was no more than ninety war galleys.

“Still, the twenty-five war galleys of the Royal Fleet anchored in the Arbor will join you, as will Ser Aurane. He sails with fifty ships from Sunspear. They should enter the Whispering Sound within the fortnight to strengthen our forces against Ser Gunthor,” Jon informed Paxter Redwyne before Monford could. As he predicted, the Lord of the Arbor reddened with rage at the mere utterance of Aurane Velaryon, a more heralded commander at sea than any Redwyne.

“Other, minor Houses will send men. Two thousand more, perhaps,” Willas Tyrell added.

“What is the strength of the Faith Militant and the Hightowers?” Robb Stark asked.

“My men have scouted seven thousand between Blackcrown and Oldtown. Some five thousand of them are camped ten miles from my lands, but the rest are constantly moving, raiding and preaching,” Merrick Bulwer declared.

“Ten thousand of the Faith Militant lie between Blackcrown and Oldtown,” Jon corrected the lord with the truer number. _I trust Thoros more than I do your scouts._ “Another fifteen thousand are gathered along the Honeywine, south of Brightwater Keep, but they will march south soon. I presume the Hightowers and the Most Devout can add another ten thousand smallfolk to the Faith Militant from the city and its surrounding lands. The Hightowers will have ten thousand true soldiers defending the walls of the city. They will not risk them on an open battlefield.”

“By my count that puts their number at thirty-five thousand. They outnumber our forces and they have the advantage of the city’s defenses! Your Graces, I must implore you delay this siege. We must gather a greater host,” said a worried Warryn Beesbury.

“Lord Beesbury, their Graces are neither cowards nor fools. You should have taken Queen Rhaella’s counsel and held your tongue unless called upon. If we were to wait and raise a greater host as you so wish, the Faith Militant’s numbers would grow, as would their support amongst the…less than devout smallfolk. Time gives them legitimacy and hope. Their Graces are wise not to give it to them. We cannot allow rebellion to fester and spread throughout the Seven Kingdoms. For now, it is contained in the Reach. We must attack Oldtown at once, remove the Hightowers from their seat, and see the Most Devout put to the sword for their treasons. The Hightowers could command a host of one hundred thousand men and it would not matter against the dragons or have you forgotten them?” Stannis scolded the Lord of Honeyholt for his cowardice.

“I agree, Lord Stannis, their greater numbers will not bring them victory, but I fear we underestimate our foe. The Poor Fellows are nothing but untrained smallfolk with woodaxes, pitchforks, dirks, and scythes, I give you. But the Warrior’s Sons, they are comprised of battle-hardened knights. There is Ser Hugh the Holy, Ser Glyndon the Godly, Ser Tristifer of the Honeywine, Ser Meryn of the Holy Meadow, and another dozen more. All of them will make capable commanders in the field. Mayhaps they have conceived strategies to defend Oldtown and their armies against the dragons,” Lord Martyn Mullendore finally ended his silence to warn them of threats that had been dealt with, only he did not know that nor any at the table except a certain few.

“These men are no threat,” Rhaenys said, which earned a disagreeable face from Martyn Mullendore.

“My Queen, Lord Martyn is not wrong to…,” Lord Harrold began.

“All of the knights you named, my Lord, are dead. Ser Hugh took an arrow to the eye, Ser Glyndon passed in his sleep from too much wine, Ser Tristifer broke his neck after falling from his horse, and Ser Meryn…that one had his throat slit,” Visenya said, surprising the faces of the lords at the table and the archons seated along the walls.

“After they murdered the first wandering septon near Blackcrown for his loyalty to House Targaryen, we sent Ser Alyn Blackwood and one hundred of our best men south to join Lord Berric Dondarrion, Thoros of Myr, and four hundred men of the Brotherhood Without Banners. They have been tracking the movements of the Faith Militant and eliminating these disloyal knights along the way. Only a few proven commanders remain to them,” Daenerys said.

“Oldtown…Where are its walls weakest? Which gates are like to fall first?” Jon directed his question to the lords of the Reach. He knew where to strike, but he wanted to hear their counsel before battleplans were formed. This was an opportunity to learn something of the city’s defenses he had missed on a royal progress and how the lords at the table conducted themselves on a war council.

“The Starry Sept. The nearby wall is as high as the rest of the city, but it is only protected by two trebuchets. Our army could approach from the northeast and…,” said Branston Cuy, mistaking the city’s walls as its only line of defense.

“That wall is lightly defended because only a fool would set the strength of their army against it. Siege towers and ladders would have our men over the walls soon enough after one pass from their Graces’ dragons, but then our men would find themselves trapped in the city’s smallest district. The bridges are easily defended and the dragons cannot clear the path without risking the destruction of them,” Gendry Baratheon reminded the Lord of Sunflower Hall.

“The Sun Gate and the Torrentine Gate. They are well-defended and the fighting will be hard, within and without the walls, but we will not face the threat of an attack at our flanks or rear from the Faith Militant. If we were to move swiftly enough, we could lay siege to the city before the Poor Fellows reach the city and add their number to the men already defending the walls,” the Old Hawk, Lord Franklyn Fowler advised. _His strategy is sound, but it also has its risks. Our forces can move quickly, but I will not underestimate our foes’ own movements._

“We attack the Rose Gate and the Dusk Gate. It is true, the Faith Militant’s hosts may reach Oldtown before we take the city. It would put our forces between the city’s walls and a greater host, but they are not strong enough to push our forces back into the walls. My uncles would need to ride out in strength to ensure we are fighting on all sides, but they are not so brave and neither are the Most Devout. They will command their men defending the walls to stay there,” Willas Tyrell laid out his own strategy, the same strategy Jon had decided on with Stannis and Davos in the dark hours of the morning.

“Lord Tyrell is right,” Stannis proclaimed, grimacing with a bitter taste in his mouth for he had yet to truly forgive House Tyrell for their support of Renly Baratheon. “Let Gunthor and Humfrey Hightower prepare the city’s defenses while our army waits for the untrained peasants to strike. Half the men standing at the battlements will lose their courage when they see their allies burned and cut down.”

“Does anyone object to Lord Willas’ plan?” Daenerys inquired without telling the council of their plans to foment chaos within the walls of Oldtown. They had agreed to hold the secret until the city was ready to fall.

“It is the right strategy, but I will need ships to ferry my father’s host across the Whispering Sound. Unless of course, Lords Beesbury and Florent have the barges and river galleys to ferry them across the Honeywine?” said Edric Dayne. Alester Florent and Warryn Beesbury said nothing, only shaking their heads to confirm they did not have the vessels to move ten thousand men across the river.

“Princess Arianne. Lord Edric. Send a raven to Lord Alaric and inform him his men are to ride for a fishing village ten miles south of Oldtown. He is to leave enough men at the Torrentine Gate and the Sun Gate to cut off any escape to the south. A small number should also take up camp outside the wall near the northeastern wall, should the Most Devout try and escape. Lord Paxter, your sons are to set sail with as many cogs and trading galleys as needed to ferry the Dornish across the Whispering Sound. Lord Davos tells me this village’s wharves are few, but they are large enough for most of your ships. Horas and Hobber are to take on as many horses as they may, but I want all of the men on the western shore as soon as possible,” Visenya ordered without protest from the Dornish or the reachmen.

“My Queens and I will fly south in a fortnight to assume command of the siege. Lord Stannis will accompany us, as will Sers Arthur, Oswell, Jonothor, and Garlan. We will remain there until the city has fallen and the Faith Militant have been defeated. We will not allow the murder, rape, and persecution of innocent smallfolk to continue. Lord Davos will rule the city and the kingdom in our stead until we have returned, with Queen Rhaella, Queen Lyanna, and Queen Elia’s counsel. The Hand speaks with our voice. His word will be law,” Jon made it clear so neither the lords at the table nor the archons would think to take advantage of their absence from court.

“Your Graces, when will the city gates be reopened? Thousands of smallfolk from the countryside remain within the city walls. Many do not have the coin to stay more than a few more nights at the inns and there are many lords who intended to return to their castles this very day,” said Lord Ardrian Celtigar unsurprisingly. The Master of Coin was wary of seeing trade come to a halt in King’s Landing. Incomes from the harbor and city gates were sure to plummet, losses that could not be recovered from the inns, taverns, and brothels.

“The gates will open once we can be sure all of the conspirators have been apprehended and the surrounding lands have been thoroughly scouted. Our khalasar on Dragonstone will arrive with the Royal Fleet and the Velaryon Fleet. The Dothraki will scout the woodlands and meadows while thousands from our household guard will reinforce the City Watch and Unsullied,” Daenerys answered Celtigar’s concerns before looking to the other faces at the table. Some found her decree unpleasing, not knowing when they would be allowed to set sail or ride for their own lands. “If that is all, we will speak more of the trial and Oldtown on the morrow, after we have questioned Leyton Hightower. My Lords. My Ladies. Before we leave you, my King must inform you of a decision we have made with regards to this war.”

“My Queens and I will not fly alone,” Jon said, glancing toward Arya to his left and Rhaegar to his right, then their siblings seated along the wall. “Prince Rhaegar and Princess Arya will join us on Viserion and Rhaegal, as will Prince Eddard, Prince Jon, Princess Visenya, and Princess Daenerys on their own dragons. House Hightower, the Most Devout, and the Faith Militant will pay for their treasons and treachery with fire and blood.”

Thousands could be heard beyond the walls of the Red Keep. Many chanted for justice, some screamed for blood, others called for the torture of the Hightowers, and a few cried for the burning of Oldtown. Jon only paid them mind for so long as he crossed the outer yard, following Oswell Whent and Arthur Dayne’s billowing white cloaks to the dungeons. No more than ten yards from the postern gate, two Unsullied stood sentry at the doorway beneath the battlements.

“Varys’ work,” Daenerys mused aloud as the cheers for revenge grew louder and louder. Jon nodded his head, but all he could think about was his son’s health. It felt wrong, that King’s Landing was graced with beautiful clear blue skies on a warm summer’s day while Aegon laid in his chambers, asleep with no sign of waking soon. A part of him prayed Rhaenyra or Lya would come running to them, shouting Aegon had recovered, but they never did.

“Unsullied! What are your names?” Jon asked the sentries protecting the dungeons in High Valyrian. Both were unknown to him, as were thousands, something that annoyed him. He would never know all their names or their faces, but he tried still. They had fought and bled for House Targaryen from Astapor to Winterfell, acts of heroism he would never forget.

“Red Flea, my King,” said the taller, stronger guard on the left.

“Dragonspear, my King,” the other responded with his chosen name.

“Tell me, how long have they been at the walls?” Jon inquired as the mob only seemed to grow louder still.

“An hour, my King. Thousands from Flea Bottom, Ser Jeffory announced from the tower. We have heard thousands more have gathered in the King’s Square. They plan to march on Aegon’s Hill,” Red Flea informed him in the Astapori dialect of Valyrian.

“Unsullied will fight for our King and Queens. Unsullied will kill House Targaryen’s enemies. They are our enemies,” Dragonspear added in a cold, deadly voice.

“We mean to end this war before any Unsullied are needed on the battlefield. You have already fought and bled enough for us. You have our gratitude for your loyalty and service,” Jon thanked the Unsullied, though they never asked nor needed any thanks.

“Snow, stay here,” Daenerys commanded her white direwolf. Ghost, Silver, and Shadow followed Snow’s example and took up their watch beside the Unsullied.

Before he stepped toward the dungeons’ entrance, Jon tilted his head toward the sky to find a dragon of orange scales circling the towers of the Red Keep. Before dawn, when the sky was the darkest of blues, Kios alerted the castle to his presence with pained screeches and roars. Jon wondered how long Aegon’s mount might claim this part of sky his own. _He will not leave until he is mounted once again._

Both guards nodded their helms before the knights of the Kingsguard led them into the torchlit corridor within the castle wall. Few steps were taken before they found the stairs that would lead them down the four levels of dungeons. Most unlike times of peace, Jon passed gaoler after gaoler in their descent. Grey Worm had seen his orders through. Every inch of the corridors within the dungeons was watched by the Unsullied.

The first level remained quiet and empty, save the spears and shields posted outside the most comfortable cells suited for imprisoned highborn. Rarely were they used during Jon’s reign, a stark contrast to the days Cersei Lannister had rule of the keep and the days his grandfather, King Aerys II, accused almost every lord of some imagined treason.

Just as the first, the second level of the dungeons remained as quiet as a crypt. Guards lined the walls, one beneath every flickering torch. The silence was only disturbed by their own footsteps, the clinking of the Kingsguard’s armor, and a hiss from a territorial grey cat in search of rats.

The warm summer air of the Crownlands was forgotten once they reached the dungeons saved for the Realm’s most vile criminals and traitors to the Iron Throne. Jon could not recall the last time he set foot inside the third level until he saw the first heavy wooden door that prevented all light from illuminating its cell. It was the day he took the head of a bandit who led a company of former sellswords and common peasants. They raided any wayn or wheelhouse travelling through the Kingswood. The man confessed his crimes and named his companions after Varys moved him to the fourth level for just a day.

“Let me out! Let me out! Let me out! I will confess! Take me to the King! I will tell him all! Please!” Jon heard the shouts from the fifth cell they passed. Fists were slamming the cell door as the prisoner’s ravings grew more and more desperate.

“Silence him. If he refuses, remove his tongue,” Rhaenys ordered the Unsullied guarding the cell door. Jon did not care to look back when their men opened the door. A shout for mercy and a plea for forgiveness were heard before the beating.

“There is Greysteel,” Oswell Whent pointed to the last cell on the right side of the corridor. Jon had no intention of speaking with the dutiful knight. He knew he might as well be speaking to a statue, for Ser Garth Hightower would tell him no secrets nor admit to any crimes or treasons. “And this one is saved for the Old Man of Oldtown, though I suppose the Old Man of the Black Cells is now a more fitting title,” Oswell continued as he stole a torch from its sconce and bid the guards to open the door to their left.

Within the cell, they found Lord Leyton Hightower sitting on the cold stone floor with his back against the wall his arm was shackled to. A bucket for waste laid only a foot away from his shackled arm in the corner of the cell. The old man stirred at the sound of footsteps in his cell and raised his free arm to shield his eyes from the torchlight before welcoming it like a summer sun in winter.

Jon stepped inside after his Kingsguard with his wives behind him. They huddled into the small, dark cell with barely any room between them. Arthur and Oswell bared their steel, not chancing any lurch of attack from the old man. If he so much as flinched in their direction, he would lose a finger or hand.

“When I was a boy, I heard stories of this place. They said a man never saw light again until his death. Men were left to wait in their own piss and shit for the sword, the rope, or what lies below. Now I find myself here and I am disappointed. My gaolers give me a clean cell, cold for an old man I admit, but clean with a bucket. I have not yet heard the screams from below. Will I hear them, or will it be my own screams I should hear?” Leyton Hightower asked as calm as any man Jon had heard facing certain death.

“Do not tempt me, Lord Leyton. I should have you flayed and burned after Lord Varys has questioned you,” Rhaenys replied icily, masking the fire raging in her heart. Jon had feared she might steal Blackfyre from his scabbard and kill the lord the moment he uttered his first words.

“You still need me. That is why I am still breathing. That and your mercy,” Leyton replied flatly until the contempt he saved for his last statement.

“If my son dies, you will receive no mercy from me. You will wish it was Maegor the Cruel deciding your fate and not I,” Rhaenys hissed, her fires having burned away the ice.

“You know you are a dead man,” Jon said.

“When you play the game of thrones, you win or you die. I lost,” replied Leyton, sounding resigned to his fate. _At least he isn’t a coward pleading for his life._ After a silence, Leyton continued, “I haven’t sat in this cell for more than a day. I did not expect to see another soul for a fortnight, which means you are already moving against Oldtown. I underestimated your cunning and overestimated your mercy. I had thought you were your father’s son, that the crown had changed you. A mistake on my part, thinking you would accept the betrothals. Tell me, how many men march on my city? I have no ravens to warn my kin.”

“Alaric Dayne leads a host of ten thousand men from the mountains. They will be at yours walls within the fortnight, well before your cousin’s fanatics can reinforce the city’s defenses, not that they would matter,” Jon treated Leyton to the truth.

“Burn them all and you will have my thanks,” Leyton said to no surprise. Jon always knew the Most Devout and the Faith Militant were just pawns in the lord’s game.

“It isn’t the septons, septas, holy brothers, holy sisters, or the Militant who should concern you. We are of the mind to burn every Hightower until your name is just another forgotten House written on the pages of history. You mentioned our mercy. You must have forgotten what we do to those who have tried to harm our children. The Great Masters of Meereen tried and failed to kill my children and they are gone. The Old Blood of Volantis conspired with them and they are gone as well. The Iron Bank and the Faceless Men tried to poison my children and all of them are dead,” Daenerys threatened their prisoner, who remained unmoved.

“Lord Leyton, do you wish to see your House join the Freys and Boltons? Or do you wish to see your line continue?” Visenya made their offer.

“You knew my answer before you set foot in this cell. Say what you will of me. Call it treason if you like. Name me an oathbreaker or worse, but I did what I did for my family. The day those dragons were born into this world, my House was weakened again. Family…legacy…it means everything to me,” Leyton Hightower said before turning away in disgust, either at them or himself. _Power meant more to him than family. A man who puts his family first would not risk his children’s lives against dragons._

“There will be a trial within the sennight. You, Ser Garth, and Ser Torrence will confess your treasons. We will have the truth, no embellishments or exaggerations. We will have true confessions, if your line is to continue. Refuse these terms and I promise you, every male in your House will be put to the sword when Oldtown falls,” Jon stepped forward to look down upon the defeated foe as he offered their terms.

“Spare Torrence and my grandsons. Spare Addam. The boy had no choice,” Leyton begged with the smallest hint of desperation. Hope lingered in the man’s eyes as he waited for an answer until Rhaenys stepped forward.

“No. You will confess your treasons, all of them, and you will name all who conspired in your plots. If you fail to name a grandson or two, we will eventually learn of it and you will have broken our terms. Your great-granddaughter has already implicated her brother in this plot. He will lose his head, unless you wish for Meredyth to take his place? My husband does not want to take her life, being that she is a highborn lady. The other Houses would not like that, but we both know they are sheep. They may grumble, but in the end, they will do nothing if that pretty little cunt loses her head,” Rhaenys said, revealing her wishes for the girl who had poisoned their son.

“I put too much faith in her…That is my fault. I was too impatient…Before I begin to tell it all, may I ask what is to become of her?” Leyton asked after ruing his mistakes.

“Right now, she is under guard in some storeroom. She will drink moon tea for the next year before she is given to the Silent Sisters,” said Visenya. After the arrests were made and the Red Keep’s defenses were strengthened, they had ordered the necessary precautions knowing Meredyth Hightower might already be with child. “If our son dies, I must warn you, she will die as well. I will not stop our daughter from burning her alive.”

“So be it. You already know of the plot that put me in this cell. My sons, Gunthor and Humfrey, were not privy to this, but…they…they knew the Most Devout did not act on their own. The High Septon, my cousin Mathos, Septon Korren, Septon Faramond, Septon Quentel, Septon Wyl, Septa Elnore, Septa Solentine….All of them knew. It was their gold that raised the first thousand or so Poor Fellows. I cannot speak to the guilt of the smallfolk leading the Poor Fellows or the knights who have joined the Warrior’s Sons. The High Septon, Korren, and Quentel told them which villages to raid and which septons to kill. My cousin has a skill for keeping his hands clean, but that matters no more,” Leyton revealed much of what they had already learned or presumed.

“Who else in your House?” Jon asked, deciding no more threats were needed.

“Garth’s son, all of Baelor’s. Humfrey and Gunthor kept this from their sons, but they will not lay down their swords and bend the knee, I am afraid,” Leyton said with some sadness.

“What of their grandsons? What of your cousins and their children? Do not lie to us,” Rhaenys warned.

“They know nothing. I took certain precautions. Too many already knew. More than once, we had feared the Spider knew everything. And of course, there is Lord Orkwood. He believed he would sit the Seastone Chair and claim Pyke for his own when this was done,” Leyton laughed when he spoke of the Ironborn. “I only spoke with the man once. Baelor dealt with the son. We planned to kill him and his men if you had given us charge to sack the Iron Islands.”

“Were there others?” Jon inquired. Leyton shook his head, confirming their suspicions, no more than one rebellious House could be found amongst the Ironborn. “Tyrosh and Myr. The magisters, was that your doing?”

“Gunthor planted some seeds of doubt with respect to your intolerance for corruption. They thought the bribery and stealing were their own ideas. You spent so many years across the Narrow Sea fighting their kind, I hoped you might return to Essos to deal with them yourself or at he very least concern yourself with Myr and Tyrosh more than the Faith. A small chance, I know, but it was of little effort,” Leyton said, almost taking pride in the fact he at least manipulated others in the game of thrones.

“Who provided the Lysene potion? Lowborn or highborn, I will have their name,” Rhaenys demanded furiously and impatiently.

“Maester Teymen,” Leyton did not surprise them, naming the Hightower’s maester. “The rest of my household is innocent. They knew nothing, but…you already knew that. What will become of my wife? My children’s wives?”

“As you said, they are innocent. When this war is over, they will return to their former Houses. The Reach is united against you. Punishing them for your treasons would undermine the unity you and your allies have sewn,” Jon answered, staring down their prisoner one last time before the trial and the execution to follow. He was unsure if he had the patience to wait more than another day to kill the old man. The fatherly part of him wanted to burn the man and take off his head with Blackfyre, but the kingly part of him remembered his duty to the Realm and his duty to justice.

“Lord Varys will have questions for you. If he finds you have lied to us, well, I need not remind you,” Daenerys made one final threat before they left the Black Cells to see their ailing son.

**Dowager Queen Lyanna Stark**

Two days had passed since Aegon had fallen ill from the Hightowers’ poison and the third day was very much the same. The hallways and solars of the royal apartments should have been filled with the sounds of her grandchildren’s joy and laughter. Instead, they were filled with a deafening silence that tore at her family’s broken hearts.

Lyanna Stark wanted to hear her namesake singing in her room with her twin sister. She wished to see Torrhen giving chase to Robb and Maekar down the corridor with his wooden sword in hand. She prayed to hear the growing direwolves yipping, howling, growling, and rolling together across the marble floors of Maegor’s Holdfast. The dowager queen even hoped to stumble upon Brandon stealing a kiss from Sansa on the spiraling stairs as they were like to do before the tourney. These most cherished sights and sounds felt more and more like faint memories from another life.

All of it felt wrong and sinful, as if they were already mourning for a lost dragon, for no one dared to laugh or smile or even make a jape. She wanted to scream and tell her family her grandson was still alive. She wanted to tell them Aegon would wake, but with every passing hour, she found herself losing hope. Every lost ounce of hope made Lyanna hate herself even more than she already did.

 _May the old gods save him and return him to us_ , Lyanna thought as she approached Aegon’s doorway after praying in the godswood alone. Zokla kept at her side, having followed her from a Small Council meeting to an inspection of the Red Keep’s western ramparts and then to the godswood. Her direwolf seemed to understand Aegon’s condition. There was a certain sadness in his golden eyes only she or Elia could see.

“Your Grace,” Ser Simon Sunglass greeted her with a slight bow in his silver and gold armor. Lyanna braved a pained smile for the Kingsguard as she entered Aegon’s untouched solar. It was another cruel reminder of Aegon’s ailing health, for everyone who knew her grandson knew his rooms were never this tidied. Kilezi and Iqi had made one pass through the chambers, cleaning and returning things to their rightful place.

“You still have not left,” Lyanna said upon entering the bedchamber, noting Nymeria’s unkept mess of dark brown hair. She also noticed her granddaughter wore the same scarlet chemise the Dothraki handmaidens had provided her after Aegon’s scalding baths had ended.

“He needs me,” Nymeria almost whispered, lying on her side next to Aegon as he slept. Her cheeks were once again tear-stricken, just as Lyanna had left her in the morning. _She cries when we are gone, when there is no one to see._

“Yes…he does,” Lyanna admitted, deciding she could not fault her granddaughter’s vigilant watch over the one she loved most in this world. If she were in Nymeria’s place and Rhaegar or Elia were in Aegon’s, she would never abandon their side until they wake.

“Kios,” Nymeria acknowledged the roar outside the open windows as she traced her fingers through Aegon’s silver hair. Lyanna glanced toward the windows and the open balcony to spy a flash of orange scales passing through the sky. “He has not given up. Neither will I.”

Lyanna settled upon the edge of the bed at the prince’s side, taking his hand in her own. She gave his hand the gentlest of squeezes, hoping somehow he would awaken at her touch. To her irrational dismay, Aegon remained unresponsive, even as White Fang followed her lead, nudging his companion’s feet with his wet nose. The direwolf tried and tried before settling into the furs atop the bed once more.

“I still remember the day you came into this world…screaming, the both of you. Babes will scream, yes, but you and your brother were the loudest I had ever heard. For a time, your mother’s arms were enough to quell your raging cries. We only had peace when someone, Visenya or Daenerys I think, decided to lay you next to one another. I remember seeing your little fingers clutching onto Aegon’s hand. You were just little babes, but you were inseparable even then. I knew it then, you were meant for each other, that you would always love and protect each other,” Lyanna said as she looked upon Aegon’s face, searching for some small quiver of the chin or a grin on his cheeks.

“You do not have to lie to me, Grandmother,” said Nymeria with her voice almost a failing whisper.

“I tell no lies to my children or grandchildren. You know this,” Lyanna responded, believing what she said to be true. She was always honest with the ones she loved, though there were times she kept secrets. Lyanna knew of her son’s love for Daenerys all those years ago, well before her husband, and kept quiet. Her secrets were few, but they were closely guarded when she thought it was best for her family, House Targaryen.

“Then I have failed him…,” Nymeria said with a tear trailing down her cheek. “I did not protect him as he has protected me.”

“Nonsense. Do not think that. I can promise you, he does not think that,” Lyanna refuted the princess’s proclamation.

“I just want him back. I want him back. I love him. We were supposed to…He…he…I just want him…,” Nymeria fought to speak with her quivering voice, but her grief overwhelmed her will. More tears spilled from her eyes and the sobs returned.

Afraid her granddaughter might feel alone with the weight she carried, she rushed around Aegon’s bed to wrap her arms around Nymeria. Lyanna told herself she would shed no more tears, but that was a foolish lie. She cried with the princess, silently praying for her grandson to wake and scorn them for being weeping maids. _Wake up, my grandson. Tell me I am supposed to be a wolf. Tell your sister she is supposed to be a dragon. Laugh at us and name us fools. Please! I beg it of you!_

“We have not lost him, Nymeria. He will return to us. He will return to you,” Lyanna whispered into Nymeria’s ear with her bravest, most hopeful voice. She struggled to resist the lump in her own throat that threatened to break her, but her love for her grandchildren was a castle wall that would not fall. “How could he not? He is a Targaryen, a prince, a dragonlord. And he has you. He will wake, Nymeria. He will wake and you will be there to help him heal. You both will wed and have children and watch them grow until they have children of their own. Aegon is strong, like his father, like your brothers. And we know how stubborn he is. Do you think he will let this poison take him? I think not. There is another King’s Tourney to win. Do you think Aegon would allow you to attend another one without wearing a crown of roses at its end?”

"No, no he would not,” Nymeria admitted with a trembling laugh. Lyanna thought she might have saved her granddaughter from crying herself to sleep, but a sadness lingered in the princess’s dark violet eyes when she turned around. “I did not tell him I love him.”

“What?” Lyanna asked with a furrowed brow. She was confused why Nymeria would say such a thing. Aegon and Nymeria never attempted to hide their love from anyone. Hardly a day passed when Lyanna did not come upon them kissing, whispering loving words to each other, sharing eyes for one another, or simply touching the other’s hand.

“At the feast, I did not tell him I love him. Gods…I…I even hated him. I wanted to curse him for ruining our night. We were supposed to…There isn’t a worse sister in this world. I did not care…for his pain. He put so much pressure on himself. I put pressure on him. I said he would win me a crown. I was selfish! I was a selfish, stupid girl! He did it all for me, the training, the…May he forgive me. I do not deserve his love,” Nymeria struggled to utter a word without her voice cracking or a sob returning.

“Aegon will not forgive because there is nothing to forgive. You deserve his love more than anyone in this world. You did not abandon him. You did not betray him,” said Lyanna. She tried to comfort Nymeria with a calm and assuring voice. “Nymeria, there were times when I thought I hated your grandfather. I would shout and scream at him. I cursed him and told him he was wrong. There were times…I still regret to this day. I cannot take them back and that is something I must live with. Listen to me, when I say there is nothing you have done that demands you beg for forgiveness.”

“Mother told me your marriage was one that could be told in one of Lya’s songs. You and Grandfather and Grandmother Elia never fought,” Nymeria said so confidently, the naivete caught Lyanna by surprise. _Visenya…_

“I should not say it, but your mother lied to you or she is lying to herself. There were times we fought amongst ourselves. We hid our quarrels well, as any parents or monarchs should. When your father won the King’s Tourney and chose Daenerys for his Queen of Love and Beauty, your grandfather was furious with them. He did not intend for them to wed. Your father was to marry Myrcella Baratheon and Daenerys, a Tyrell or Martell, most like. His fury paled only to my own. I supported their betrothal, so we fought..for several moons. It became so terrible, I went north with your father and two of your mothers to Winterfell. After your father and Daenerys were exiled, things only got worse. Elia tried to hold us together. Eventually, when your grandfather’s rage passed and he discovered that goodness in his heart, he promised to reconcile with your father and Daenerys. In turn, we reconciled,” Lyanna told her granddaughter as she fought away the unshed tears threatening to spill as she remembered her husband. _Gods, I would do anything to have that time back. To save him or at least cherish the end. To have Rhaegar back. To have Aegon back…my boy._

“Grandmother?” asked Nymeria with a worried look about her face. Lyanna tried, but the tears pooling in her eyes finally fell down her cheeks.

“Forgive me. Sometimes, I must cry when I remember them, your grandfather and your uncle. What I am trying to say is, no marriage is perfect. If there is one, I have not learned of it. Even your parents have had their own small quarrels, but they never allow them to ruin their love for one another. You and your brother must be sure you do the same. You will fight and disagree over things, some minor and some important, but you must not forget your love,” Lyanna offered her counsel as she wiped away the tears.

“Never,” said Nymeria before lying back down at Aegon’s side. Hura leapt onto the bed, joining White Fang at their companion’s feet. The direwolves were too large to share the bed and eventually returned to the floor when they realized they were no longer pups.

“What will you do when he wakes?” Lyanna asked as she watched Moonlight join Kios in the sky outside the windows.

“Kiss him. Tell him I love him. Look after him and help him heal. Stay with him until he is tired of me. If Father and Mothers would allow it, I will marry him,” Nymeria promised as she ran her fingers through his silver hair as she did before.

“I can assure you, Aegon will not grow tired of you. As to a wedding, I am afraid your parents will insist you wait until you are of age,” Lyanna cautioned the princess as she left the bed to look out the nearest window in the bedchamber. Half of the dragons roamed the skies, restless with their roars and cries in the distance.

“It will not matter if we wed in secret. What can they say? Two of them wed in the Winterfell godswood without Grandfather’s permission. You were there,” Nymeria said so willfully, Lyanna believed her granddaughter was seriously entertaining the thought of whisking away Aegon to the godswood once his strength was returned to him.

“Aye, you are not wrong. Just be careful. Should there be a wedding past midnight, be sure to tell your grandmothers,” Lyanna said as she turned from the window to discover joy and surprise on Nymeria’s face. “It is tradition.”

“What is tradition?” Elia announced herself in the doorway, looking into the bedchamber with an arched eyebrow. Zokla left her side to go to Elia, licking her hand as some small dog might do.

“Secret weddings in the godswood,” Lyanna told her the truth, knowing Elia would pry it from her sooner or later.

“I suppose I can support this small treason. I think our King and Queens would pardon us,” Elia jested as she came to Aegon’s side. Just as Lyanna had, Elia took his hand, seemingly hoping the prince would open his eyes at her touch. “Has he felt cold since…?”

“No. Grandmaester Pylos said the chill is gone for good, but he told to me to feel his skin every hour just to be sure,” Nymeria replied. _I do not doubt her. She does not look like she has slept in a fortnight._

“You should return to your own bed, at least for one night,” said Elia, earning a disagreeable look from Nymeria. “You need the rest. You are worn thin.”

“And risk not being here when he wakes? No, I cannot do that. I will not do that. Besides, this is my bed,” Nymeria defiantly protested, unafraid if they knew she intended to share the chambers with Aegon from this day forth. _She still has a touch of her mother’s temper._

**Princess Visenya Targaryen**

Sails of black and sea green cloth spanned Blackwater Bay from north to south as far as her eyes could see. From her place on the rocks below the royal gardens, Senya looked to the east and counted near one hundred war galleys. In truth, there were far more, hidden behind the forest of Targaryen and Velaryon sails. She had spied them all from the highest turret in Maegor’s Holdfast, where Aeryn went on to name more ships than he had any reason to know. _How can he remember their names? They all look the same to me_ , she thought hours before.

Senya did not wander the rocky shoreline to count her little brother’s ships. She found herself walking and climbing from rock to rock until she found the best one, where the tide struck perfectly and splashed her bare feet. The Red Keep felt like a prison, as did the royal gardens. Everywhere she turned, no matter the solar or hall, corridor or cellar, there seemed to be a lady, lordling, or some knight offering their wishes for Aegon’s recovery. More than anything, she needed to be free of it all.

For what felt like hours, Senya sat upon her rock and watched the rising tide as dusk neared. The eastern sky was already a hue of golds and oranges, and it would soon turn to ever-darkening hues of blue and purple. On occasion, when there were no seagulls or dragons for her eyes to follow across the sky, she would glimpse over her shoulder to make sure Dunk was still at the foot of the stone stairs watching her. Her loyal direwolf never left, sitting on his haunches underneath a blazing sun without shade to cool his grey fur.

“There you are!” she heard Eddard’s voice over the waves crashing and churning against the rocks all around her. He came to her in a red roughspun tunic fit for the training yards, not court. Like their brothers, Eddard spent all of his time sparring when he was not attending a Small Council meeting or keeping Nymeria company as she watched over Aegon. They were in the middle of a war and everyone knew the first battle was not far away. “I thought I might find you here. I can leave you alone if…”

“No, stay,” Senya did not ask. Eddard leapt from rock to rock until he sat next to her, dangling his worn leather boots over the edge for the waves to splash away the dirt that covered them. “Have you seen him?”

“Nothing has changed,” Eddard said somberly, hiding his face from her. _He is ashamed I might see his tears._

“I had hoped you would come and tell me otherwise,” Senya confessed as she rested her head against his shoulder.

“That was my hope as well. We tried to get Nymeria to leave, but she refused. She needs to get out of that room before she goes mad. She has barely slept and she looks worse every time I see her,” Eddard said, worried for their sister.

“I would refuse if I were in her place. I wanted to refuse, but I know I would only get in the way. If I were laying in that bed, you would stay by my side until I recovered,” Senya defended her sister’s stubbornness.

“Aye, I would,” Eddard agreed and pulled her closer to lay a kiss upon her temple. “And after you had recovered, I would take Sonar and burn whoever put you in that bed.”

“You think Nymeria means to burn Meredyth Hightower? She is to be held prisoner until she is to join the Silent Sisters. You heard Father,” Senya said bitterly, wishing her father cared less of what the lords of the Seven Kingdoms might think. _That evil bitch poisoned my brother. I would swing the sword if no one else would._

“If there were not so many Unsullied guarding her cell, I believe our sister would,” said Eddard, reminding Senya that her sister held a temper that was rarely displayed, yet as fiery as a wild, riderless dragon. “I am sorry. You came here to get away from all of that.”

“I came here to get away from them, not you,” Senya said. She did not want her brother to feel guilty, but Eddard’s face was riddled with guilt all the same. “I wish this had never happened. We should have stayed on Dragonstone or gone to Summerhall.”

“Aye,” Eddard said, even if he knew better. Senya knew better than to believe what she said. Dragonstone or Summerhall or the Red Keep, it did not matter. The Hightowers would have come for them and executed their plot. “After this war is won, we will return to Summerhall, to the gardens and the lake.”

“I love it, but it is still strange to think it will be our home. Without Arya and Rhaegar, Nymeria and Aegon, Jon and Dany…Naerys, Rickard, Lyarra, Robb…Our parents, our grandmothers…It will not feel the same. Just thinking about it, I miss them already and we have not even left. Just going days without hearing Aegon’s voice…His laughs and his curses…,” Senya revealed her fear and pain. She did not know if unshed tears were close to rolling down her cheeks for fear of the future or for her ailing brother.

“Aegon will make it. I know it. Valarr means to enter the lists in the King’s Tourney. You know he is too stubborn to allow our little brother to win the King’s Tourney before himself,” said Eddard, trying to lift her spirits. It worked. Senya fought back the tears brimming in her eyes. _He knows me, more than anyone in this world. I am frightened for Aegon, not our future._

“I love you,” Senya told her brother. _I do not say it enough. Not as often as he tells me. I should tell him every morning of every day. I should tell him every night, at supper and in our beds._

“And I love you,” Eddard echoed her sentiment as he gently lifted her chin with his fingers. Ever so carefully, he inched closer and closer until their lips crashed into the others. He was sweet and slow, yet forceful with his tongue when he needed to be. Senya even dared to guide his free hand up her skirt. The feeling of his fingers tracing the inside of her thigh made her wet for him. He had her heart thrumming in her chest from the thrill. To her disappointment, their lips parted and his exploratory hand retreated at the sound of Arghurys’ howl.

Rhaegar and Jon descended the stone staircase carved into the rockface beneath the royal gardens. Her brothers were dressed all in black, from their leather boots to their soiled roughspun tunics. Dany came behind them in her own black breeches and tunic, a stark contrast to the silver hair tumbling freely down her back from the intricate braids woven by their Dothraki handmaidens. Arya wore a tunic as red as Eddard’s, only hers appeared more appropriate for royalty with its finer material and the black dragons sewn along her shoulders.

Senya felt out of place, the only one who could not call herself a warrior amongst her siblings. If she attempted to wield a sword in the training yard or the battlefield, she guessed she would make a great fool of herself. More than a year had passed since she last picked up a sparring sword to train with Dany or Arya.

“If you are trying to count the ships, you will have an easier time counting the blades of the Iron Throne. They are fewer,” Arya jested as she threw aside her boots and dipped her toes in the waves of the Blackwater beside Senya.

“Where is Sarra?” Senya inquired since she had not seen their friend since the previous day, which was a rare occurrence.

“With her mother. Lady Missandei is going over the accounts with Lord Ardrian and required Sarra accompany her. I believe they intend to improve the roads in the Riverlands and even chart new ones,” Arya answered. _A gift to the riverlords before the eventual royal progress. That is wise of Father and Mothers._

“Who was the last one standing?” Eddard asked of the sparring.

“Jon,” Dany huffed with frustration. She was just as competitive as her twin and hated losing more than anything.

“You know we are not supposed to set foot on the battlefield. Father made us agree to his terms,” Senya reminded her siblings. They trained as if they were soldiers marching off to war, not dragonriders who would fly in the safety of the skies.

“That does not mean we should not prepare. What if the Faith Militant were to infiltrate our army’s camp or one of our dragons were wounded? Father and Mother always said you can never prepare enough for a battle,” Arya replied with sound reason. Senya suddenly felt naked without a sword on her hip or a small bit of steel hidden beneath her dress. “If you would like, I can find you a proper sword. There is more than one suitable for you laying around in the armory.”

“Find me a sword,” Senya decided she could not be the only Targaryen princess without one. Eddard did not hide the skepticism in his eyes, likely wary of the thought of her fighting on the ground. He only nodded in acceptance of her decision when her eyes silently told him she did not mean to take any risks. _I know my place. It is in the air, with Stormfyre and her flames._

In the silence that followed, Senya considered all that lay ahead for herself and her siblings. She imagined all that could go wrong and all that could go right for her family. She knew in her heart they would win this war, but there was still the slightest thread of doubt lingering in her mind. She did not study the histories and stratagems of warfare like her brothers, but she knew the histories of Westeros well enough to know that the less powerful, outnumbered side of a war sometimes won. Senya also understood neither side would come away from this war untouched.

“I am afraid…of what is to come,” Senya admitted, trusting her brothers and sisters not to think her a coward.

“You are not alone, Senya,” Rhaegar dared to speak first. His words surprised her, but then they did not. Her oldest brother never hid the truth from them. He never kept secrets and always spoke with a certain boldness when he must. “This is a war. All of us should be afraid. When the first battle begins, all of us must find our courage and fight, or we have lost.”

“Fly high and fly fast and never the same path. Remember?” Arya echoed their parents’ teachings in regards to flying a dragon above a battlefield, an enemy encampment, or a hostile city. The entire world knew of their dragons. Their enemies were certain to take employ measures to defend against House Targaryen’s great advantage. _Only fly low when you mean to attack_ , Senya remembered her mother’s instruction.

“Do you think this war will truly end at Oldtown?” Eddard asked them all. It was expected the Faith Militant would march their hosts on the city to alleviate the coming siege, but some on the council had their doubts. Ser Jorah Mormont said the Poor Fellows would be mad to face the loyalist army in the field and warned the Small Council there were still enough knights of the Warrior’s Sons who might dissuade the peasants from certain defeat. Varys assured the knight of Bear Island the Faith Militant were mad and ultimately followed the septons of the Starry Sept, not the Warrior’s Sons.

“They are stupid enough to rebel against the Iron Throne, mayhaps they are stupid enough to meet us on an open field. I pray they are so I can burn them all,” Jon replied in a voice still laced with hatred, which was most unlike him. He was always calm and measured, like their father, but that was before Aegon. Senya prayed her brother would wake soon, for she did not like seeing the silent rage consuming and changing Jon.

“Jon…,” said Dany, only to pause and hold her tongue. Whatever she meant to say, she thought better of it. Dany hated the Faith Militant just as much as Senya, but this did not sound like their brother. He had never spoken so hatefully of their enemies before. _She does not like seeing him like this any more than I._

“Listen, no matter how long this war lasts, it will affect the Seven Kingdoms for decades to come, as did the War of the Four Kings and the Great War. Thousands will die and those they have left behind will remain our enemy, lowborn and highborn alike. It will take a long time for these wounds to heal. Some may never heal. We must help our parents, for this burden will one day fall on our shoulders. We must be strong and cunning and support Aemon and Naerys when they claim their castle. We must look out for each other, always,” Rhaegar said, so very kingly. There was no crown on his head and he did not sit a throne, but the way he spoke reminded Senya of their father. _He was born to be King._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lyanna & Senya POVs were not my best. I felt I needed to convey how the family dealt w/ the aftermath of all of it and I did not want to pick obvious POVs like Rhaenys or Nymeria. Next chapter, we learn Aegon's fate & see the trials. Chapter 17, the Targaryens fly south.
> 
> Please leave comments! Any questions, criticisms, errors, POV requests, or requests for more appearances/information on specific characters you think I have left out/ignored.


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